Lilacs and Landmines
by seahorses
Summary: AU-Santana and Brittany meet while serving as nurses during WWII.
1. Chapter 1: Prologue, New York,1979

**A/N:** Well, I'm trying something new! This is a completely AU fic, mostly set in the 1940's, with some other decades thrown in. It's going to start off pretty slow, but really picks up around the third chapter. Give it a shot!

I haven't abandoned TaSM, and I'm still going to be working on the college years, I just needed a little break. I've been writing in that universe for a year!

And just so everyone's clear, this is definitely a Brittana story, so don't worry.

Also, a quick warning, there will be some racially-charged language since this is set in the 1940's. And I take some creative license historically.

I hope you like it and let me know what you think!

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue: New York, 1979<strong>

Santana turns off the water running into her bathroom sink. She shuts her eyes, resting her hands on the sink, just listening to the buzz outside her bathroom. Silence is something she has become accustomed to, something she is missing today. City silence, she likes to call it, because the buzz of Manhattan never seems to truly dim. The wailing of sirens and car horns and laughter always come through her window, but in her apartment, it is always just her and her thoughts. She likes it. Today, however, she can hear her children arguing, her grandchildren giggling, and the low voice of President Carter coming through the television set. She slowly rubs lilac scented lotion into her hands, massaging it into the fine wrinkles that are just beginning to form. She likes her silence. She likes this too. It's different, yet comforting, somehow.

"Mama, està bien?" Blanca asks through the door, lightly tapping on the frame.

"Sí, mija," Santana says, opening the door, her smile a little too bright. She's putting on a show, and she knows her daughter knows it. "Te preocupes demasiado," Santana says, wrapping her arm around her daughter's shoulder. Blanca chuckles as they walk into the kitchen together. She tucks a stray, feathered hair behind her daughter's ear. "I don't understand this hairstyle, Blanca," she says. "If you keep dying and frying your hair, it is all going to fall out."

"Now who's worrying too much, Mama?" Blanca says with a grin.

"Abuela!" Kristen yells, "Mom's letting me make the empanadillas!"

"They smell delicious, Kiki," Santana says, using her nickname for her youngest granddaughter. She walks over to where Kristen is stirring ingredients and pretends to smell the uncooked food. "Where is your sister? And your cousins? Why aren't they helping you?"

"Amanda was helping Uncle Edward with the pollo al jerez, but she got bored, so she, Ryan, and Vanessa are in the living room."

"I see," Santana said with a smirk, gently ruffling the little girl's hair.

"Help me with the empanadillas, tía?"

"Sí, Kiki," Blanca laughs at the little girl, covered in flour and sauce and lord knows what else and moves between her mother and her niece to help with the cooking.

"Don't laugh at me!" Kristen says, waving her spoon at Blanca. "And don't call me Kiki. Only Abuela is allowed to call me that." Kristen scowls at Blanca.

"I'm very sorry, Kristen. Now, let's see what kind of mess you've gotten into." Blanca says, laughing at her niece. Santana smiles, ruffling Kristen's hair before she follows the sound toward her living room.

It's strange to see her apartment so full; she has gotten so used to having all the space to herself after all these years. The apartment's not huge—it's still New York after all—but it certainly had enough space to raise three children and it's nice to see it filled again. Sometimes she feels like her life is just a huge, mocking vacuum when she hears the sound of her own bare feet echo off the wooden floors, or when the most noise in her apartment is the rustling as she grades papers.

Today is different.

Today, her son Edward and his wife are fighting, as usual, in what they think are hushed whispers in the corner of the room. Amanda, Ryan, and Vanessa are sprawled on the floor of her living room, crowded around a book.

"¿A qué miran?" Santana asks her grandchildren, trying to peer over their shoulders and shutting off the TV.

"Photo album," Amanda says, not looking up from the book. Santana slowly lowers herself to the ground to get a better look. She smiles softly at the pictures of herself as a teenager.

"Abuela, when are these pictures from?" Amanda asks, still not looking up from the album.

"The end of high school, I think," Santana says, leaning over her to touch a picture. "This is your Great-Aunt Quinn, your grandfather, and myself getting ready to go to the Savoy."

"Is this before the war?" Ryan asks, rolling from his stomach to his back to look at Santana.

"Just before, I think," Santana says.

"I didn't know you were a nurse, Abuela," Vanessa says, touching a photograph of Santana at the training base, her head thrown back in laughter, her hand grasped around her hat to keep it from falling off. She's armed with a Billie Holiday album under her arm.

"Is that how you met grandpa?" Vanessa asks.

"No, my dear," Santana says, pulling her granddaughter close to her body. "I met your grandfather well before the war. He asked me to marry him before he shipped out. I became a nurse to try and help as many men like your grandfather as I could."

"You always go back to pictures of the war, mama." Blanca says, now leaning in the doorway.

"I'm not the one who pulled them out!" Santana defends, glaring at her daughter, who still, much to Santana's satisfaction, cowers at her mother's icy stare.

"Is that grandpa?" Vanessa asks, pointing to a picture of a young Sam with his arm around a young Santana. He was in his Navy uniform, his hair messy beneath his hat and a lopsided grin across his face. Santana nods.

"That's your grandpa," she says, smiling. "I can't believe all of my children ended up with those ridiculous lips," she laughs. Edward pouts his lips out to a giggling Vanessa.

"Look at how young Aunt Quinn looks here!" Edward says.

"She does look _so_ young," Santana says. "It's amazing that I haven't aged a day over 18," she continues, eyeing herself in the picture.

"Who is this, Abuela?" Amanda asks, pointing to a picture of a blond with her hair hanging loosely around her shoulders. She's in a men's army uniform, tailored to fit her small frame. Her grin stretches from ear to ear with a cigar in her hand.

"Brittany," Blanca replies from the doorway. Santana looks up; Blanca is nowhere near the photograph. She and her daughter make eye contact for a moment, and Santana can't decipher what the eye contact means. It's a cross between "I know you better than you think" and plain smugness.

The rest of the family is silent, waiting for Santana to elaborate on who the young woman is in the picture. Santana tucks a hair behind Amanda's ear.

"You know, your great-grandparents brought me to this country in 1928. It was just before the depression, and of course they had no way of knowing that the stock market would crash and there would be no work for a Puerto Rican academic like your grandfather and that he would spend the rest of his life shining shoes in Spanish Harlem. He never complained though, he always just made sure that I knew the opportunities I would have as an American," Santana says, rolling her eyes.

"That sounds like Grandpa," Edward says. "Always too proud and too humble at the same time."

Santana nods. "I never really understood why they brought us here. Back then I just desperately wanted to go back to Puerto Rico. I didn't even remember it, but I always thought that it must be better than here. I met your grandfather and Aunt Quinn my first year in high school. We had moved from a Puerto Rican neighborhood in Brooklyn to an integrated neighborhood in the Bronx, with better schools."

* * *

><p><strong>New York: 1938<strong>

"Spic! Get out of our school and go back to Puerto Rico!"

"Too many spics around here these days."

"Go home!" Santana ignores the taunts as she makes her way to the picnic table at her new high school.

"Ignore them," a boy says, sitting next to her. He has a plaid shirt tucked into shorts that were a bit too long for him. His hair was unnaturally blond, as though he had spent all summer outside and combed into an uncomfortable side part. "They're all jerks. Don't let it get to you." Santana doesn't say anything to him and he doesn't push it. "I don't know what they have against Puerto Rican's anyway," he says.

"We're not like you" She tries to conceal her accent as she speaks—and tries even harder to not _sound_ like she's concealing her accent.

"Well, I don't know what they have against Puerto Ricans then. I'm Sam. This here's Quinn."

"Santana."

"We get it too." Quinn says, speaking for the first time. "Pollack this and Pollack that. You learn to just let it roll off of you."

"Well isn't this appropriate. The pollacks eating with the spic. Might as well get some niggers in there and we'll really have a party." Santana turns slowly to face the boy who had just spoken to her. She glares daggers in his direction. He stops and looks at her, clearly unsure of what to do. Santana stands, straightens her pencil skirt, and slowly approaches him until she's inches away from his face. He opens his mouth to say something, but she's too fast, spitting directly at him. At first he's shocked, and Santana stands with her arms crossed smugly, but before she can say anything he slaps her across the face. Quinn and Sam watch the exchange, their mouths hanging open. Santana, instead of backing down, slaps him back.

"Listen, you puta, you come near me or my friends again, you'll get a hell of a lot worse than some spit and a slap in the face, understand me?" The boy continues looking at her in shock and Santana returns to her seat as he retreats back to his friends.

"That's not exactly what I meant by letting it roll off of you." Quinn says, eyes wide with shock at Santana's behavior.

"I'm not going to just sit by and take that. You shouldn't either." Santana leaves her lunch on the table and returns to the school building, leaving the other two in shock.

"I like her," Sam says to Quinn, taking a bite of his carrot stick with a grin plastered on his face.

"She's certainly…a character."

* * *

><p>"You never told me that story, Mama," Edward says.<p>

"You three never asked. New York was not this kindest place to be a Puerto Rican in the 1930's. I don't know why I'm telling you this. You three know that New York wasn't the kindest place to be Puerto Rican in the 1950's and 60's either."

"Thank god for West Side Story," Edward joked. "Now everyone thinks we're like Natalie Wood!" Blanca laughs.

"Finish your story, Mama."

"I'm sure you know how the rest of the story goes."

"Tell it again," Vanessa says. "I don't know it!

"It's boring." Santana shrugs, rolling her eyes. "You all know the ending!"

"We don't think so."

"I'll tell the abridged version. Your grandfather asked me out three times before I finally said yes."

"Why didn't you want to go out with Grandpa?"

"I thought his lips were silly. I called him Trouty Mouth."

"What made you change your mind, Mama?"

"Your abuela. She was concerned that I was never bringing boys home, like my sisters, so finally I caved in and accepted a date to a school dance. I think Quinn was a little jealous at first, but she got over it eventually, obviously."

"And you were together ever since," Kristen sang.

"Exactly. Just like a fairytale. Now, what do you say we get this mother's day dinner on the road!" Santana asks her children and grandchildren. "You know, you can't just leave empanadillas, Kristen, they take love and nurture to come out so delicious."

"Like you know anything about that, mama," Blanca says, laughing.

"You three came out okay, didn't you?" Santana scoffs.

"The _only_ thing Mama knows how to nurture are her precious empanadillas," her other son chimes in, laughing.

"Enough, all of you!" Santana says with a grin. "Get off your lazy butts and help me cook," she says, walking into the kitchen, knowing her children will follow behind her.

* * *

><p>Santana sips her coffee and hums along to a jazz tune on her record player. The apartment smells like dinner and children and Blanca's Pomeranian and dark coffee and a little like her lilac hand lotion. She likes it. She knows she should downsize, but she has rent control in a nice part of Manhattan and she likes the idea that her children always have their childhood home to come back to, if they ever need it. Kristen and Vanessa have already gone to bed, so now just her children, in-laws, and the teenagers still awake, quietly reading their magazines or comic books, or doing crossword puzzles.<p>

"What's that, Mama?" Blanca asks, looking over at Santana, evidently noticing her humming.

"Just an old tune."

"What's it called?"

"Easy Living. It's from an old Jean Arthur film."

"Which is better—teaching, singing, or being in school?"

"They're equally good. Sometimes, my students talk me into singing. Sometimes I think I will only truly be happy if I can sing my dissertation to my students."

"That's not the same. Do you miss singing?"

"Sometimes." Her daughter looks sadly at her. "You're inquisitive tonight, what's going on?"

"I'm just curious." Santana continues to stare at her, obviously expecting a better answer. Blanca sighs. "You know Tammy, my friend from college who just got married last summer?" Santana nods. "Her dad just passed away suddenly."

"Well, please send her my condolences," Santana says.

"It made me think about how few of daddy's stories I have. I was so young when he died. I don't want to not know your stories too."

"Oh, for crying out loud, Blanca. I'm not going anywhere." Santana says, rolling her eyes at her daughter. "I'm going to be one of those cranky old ladies who's just annoyed that she's still alive after everyone else has passed on. I'm probably going to be stuck on this earth until I'm well over 100." Edward laughs from his seat on the couch.

"Your story, earlier didn't really tell us who Brittany was. In fact, it didn't really mention Brittany at all." Blanca says. Santana chuckles.

"You are so much like me, sometimes it frightens me." Santana replies, rolling her eyes. "You never know when to just let something go."

"You were avoiding talking about her, weren't you?"

"Not avoiding, per se. Just…trying to keep the past in the past."

"I've seen you looking at that picture before." Blanca says.

"Others too," Edward chimes in. "Other pictures of the two of you."

"My goodness. Didn't anyone ever tell you that curiosity killed the cat?"

"That was your job," her sons say, simultaneously, laughing.

"I obviously did not do a very good one. I know you fools, and I know you're not going to let this go, but it's a long story, and I don't know if you all are old enough to handle it."

"Mama! We're middle-aged!" Edward says.

"Speak for yourself, Edward!" Blanca yells, "I'm still young!"

"Cut it out, both of you, or Mama isn't going to tell the story."

"I don't even know where to begin."

"I find the beginning is always a good place to start." Edward says, using a line Santana frequently used when her children were young and in trouble and she needed information. Santana sighs, placing her coffee on the table in front of her.

"Well, I suppose it begins with the war. Aunt Quinn, your father, and I had all graduated from high school, and none of us knew what we were supposed to be doing. Quinn took a job as a typist and I sewed at my mother's dress shop. Your grandfather began work at a light bulb factory."

"I thought Dad always wanted to be a lawyer."

"I think it's something he discovered about himself during the war. Something about defending those who didn't have the means to defend themselves. You know how your father was. Before that, he worked at a light bulb factory and complained everyday about how the little pieces of glass dug their way under his skin. I sang some nights up in Harlem, much to my mother's chagrin. I was always a little too…carefree for her. I guess that's the word. It was a fun six months. We were young. We didn't care much about anything other than where the new place to dance was and who the new hot jazz star was and what film Cary Grant was going to make next. And I'm sure you know the next part of the story," Santana says, sounding bored. "Pearl Harbor happened. We were all at work, listening to it on the radio. Your father came back to find me and Quinn in my mother's kitchen and announced that he was enlisting. He asked me to marry him the day he left. After he left, Quinn and I were restless. We had always been a trio, in a way, taking on Brooklyn together. It was hard, seeing so many of our friends and classmates leave and we felt so…helpless, I suppose is the word. It was Quinn's idea that we join the Army Nurse Corps. So, as soon as we turned 18, we did."

"Mama, you're just telling another story about Dad…"

"I'll get there a lot faster if you stop interrupting, Blanca." Santana says.

"Sorry," Blanca whispers.

"As I was saying, we joined the Army Nurse Corps in 1942. I enlisted under a fake name. Puerto Rican's weren't allowed to join the Army Nurse Corp, but you know they didn't keep records back then the way they do today. So, I became Santana Lopresti, a particularly dark skinned Italian girl from the Bronx. No one questioned it. You know they used to have a particularly unsavory name for dark skinned Italians from Sicily, and people were ignorant and no one said anything to me about it the entire time we served abroad. We met Brittany during training, before we went abroad, at our training camp in Long Island."

* * *

><p><strong>New York: 1942<strong>

"You got a beau?" Dolores asks the bunk, her question obviously not geared toward anyone in particular. It's their first day in training, and it's been all fittings for uniforms and military codes and protocols. The barracks is really the first time any of the women have had to talk to each other.

"No," Quinn offers. "Just haven't met the right guy." A few other girls nod in agreement. Santana tightens a large curler in her hair.

"Speak for yourselves. I am engaged," Santana says, waving her ring around for the other girls to see, her usual bravado amplified for the moment. She was treated to a round of squeals, from everyone other than Quinn, who simply rolls her eyes.

"He in the war?" Dolores asked.

"Navy. Last I heard he was stationed in the Pacific, but he couldn't be specific."

"You miss him?"

"Of course," Santana says. Her voice has that hint of defensiveness to it that makes Quinn stare at her for what may only be a fraction of a second. Quinn's eyes squint and Santana understands that Quinn is trying to read her face. Santana's eyes quickly return to that steely gaze she has perfected after all these years of harassment. She knows Quinn will never be able to read that face, because Santana doesn't know what she's feeling. It's as though all of her emotions try to inhabit her expression at once and she ends up looking lost, angry, or maybe scared. She doesn't know what she feels so her face says everything.

The women chat about their beaus or fiancés or husbands as they finish their hair and settle into their bunks, but Santana isn't listening anymore, lost in her own thoughts about Sam. There is movement long after the lights are out as the women get accustomed to their new twin size beds, the itchy sheets, and the strange noises because most of them are so far away from home.

Santana _does_ miss Sam, she thinks to herself, turning over again to try and find _any_ position that will allow her to get some sleep. She doesn't understand why the question bothers her so much, but, regardless, it does. He's funny and sweet and charming. Sure, she doesn't understand his interest in a lot of things, like cheesy vaudeville acts or the Amos and Andy radio show, when she would much rather be uptown dancing to Chick Webb play at the Savoy, or whatever hot band they had up there now. Sam isn't the greatest of dancers, but her mother told her that was no reason to not date someone. Now she guesses that it's no reason not to marry him.

She misses him. She knows she misses Sam. She rolls over again, trying to drown out the sounds of other women crying quietly into their pillows about men overseas whom they haven't seen in weeks and months. She wonders if she misses Sam the right way.

"You're thinking a lot," comes a voice from the bed next to her. It's nearly pitch black in the room, but when she turns she sees the outline of blond hair in rollers and large, blue eyes looking at her.

"You're perceptive." Santana bites, rolling her eyes. The girl doesn't respond.

"You thinking about your fiancé?"

"Why? Are you trying to live vicariously through me, pretending you were lucky enough to have a beau to miss?"

"No. I'm married. His name is Artie. He's in the Pacific too, like your Sam." Santana is surprised the girl was listening to the earlier conversation. She doesn't think she's heard her say anything since they arrived at the camp.

"Have you heard from him?" Santana asks softly.

"No. Not since he left."

"I'm sorry," Santana says. "I'm sure you'll hear from him soon." The young woman shrugs, making the military blanket scrunch up around her neck.

"What's your name?"

"Santana Lopresti."

"I'm Brittany Abrams. You shouldn't think so much, Ms. Santana Lopresti. It will give you wrinkles."

"I'll keep that in mind, Mrs. Brittany Abrams." Before long, Santana could hear Brittany's breathing even out. Mrs. Brittany Abrams was probably right. She should try to think less so she could get some sleep.


	2. Chapter 2: Long Island, 1942

**Author's Note:  
><strong>Wow, so many reviews/alerts for the prologue! Thank you everyone who reviewed and is reading this story! I hope you enjoy Chapter 1. Like I said, we're still starting out pretty slowly, but it picks up in the next chapter or so.

I also forgot in to thank my amazing Beta, howaboutno, for all of her hard, amazing, work on this fic with me! So, thank you!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1: Long Island, 1942<strong>

"Abuela, this story sucks. She was just another nurse in the war?" Santana's granddaughter, Amanda asks, removing the large headphones from her head. She pushes the large pause button on her cassette player.

"I thought you weren't listening. Don't you have music coming out of that thing?" Santana asks. Amanda laughs.

"Usually, Abuela, but sometimes I just keep them on so that I can pretend that I can't hear my parents talking to me," Amanda smirks.

"She gets this behavior from you, Mama," Amanda's father says, rolling his eyes at his daughter.

"No, mijo, she gets this behavior from you. _You_ got it from me."

"Anyway," Amanda says, "I thought this story was going to interesting. Like this Brittany was a Nazi spy or something, and you had to brutally murder her to protect our country."

"That'd be awesome," Amanda's brother, Ryan, says.

"You need to control how much television your children watch," Santana says to her son. "Where are they getting all of these ridiculous World War II stories from?" Her son shrugs.

"Shall I continue the story?" Santana asks.

"Is it going to get any better?" Amanda asks.

"Jesus," Blanca says, throwing up her hands and looking at her brother. "I love my niece and nephew, but seriously, I want Mama to finish."

"Sorry, Tía," Amanda says, quietly. "We're listening." She says, turning to her grandmother and leaving her oversized headphones hanging around her neck.

"So, as I was saying, that's how I met Brittany."

* * *

><p>Santana didn't sleep well the first night of training. Brittany's words about thinking less caused Santana to just thought more about thinking less. She dressed quickly and silently the next morning, falling in line with Quinn as they left their barracks just after the sun rose. She was exhausted and basically did what she needed to do to get through the day.<p>

She spent most of the morning next to Quinn, quickly realizing which of her fellow nurses she would get along with and which were going to be more difficult to deal with. Of course, the latter list was much longer than the former. She decides she should just avoid the other nurses altogether and hide behind Quinn. Not that Quinn's the friendliest or nicest of people, but she's less likely than Santana to let her tongue lash out before her brain can stop it.

"You didn't sleep well last night," a voice says from behind her as they walk toward the mess hall for lunch. Quinn raises her eyebrows as Santana whips around, ready to snap at whoever is speaking to her.

"Excuse me?" She says instead, instantly recognizing the blue eyes from the night before.

"You didn't sleep well last night," Brittany says, enunciating and speaking louder this time around.

"I heard you. I just was surprised," Santana says. Quinn raises her eyebrows at Santana.

"Were you thinking about Sam?" Brittany asks, her eyes wide, her voice innocent.

"Of course," Santana says. She's flustered for some reason and her voice hitches in her throat. Quinn looks between Brittany and Santana, her eyebrows furrowed with confusion. Santana glances at Quinn, who is now looking disdainfully at Brittany's uniform. It's wrinkled, and her shirt is half coming out of the skirt, and her hat sits half-cocked on her head. It can't help but make Santana smile, just a little bit.

"I figured," Brittany says. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay," she adds.

"I'm fine," Santana snaps back. She rolls her eyes as the three of them stand awkwardly in the pathway. "I'm sorry, Quinn. This is Brittany. She's in the bunk next to me. Brittany, Quinn. We're childhood friends."

"Oh, that's so cute!" Brittany says. "I don't have many childhood friends." Santana's eyes crinkle in a smile as Brittany bounces up and down on her heels as she speaks. "I moved when I was really young. It's really cute that you two became nurses together! I wish I could have brought my cat with me. He's pretty much my oldest friend. I think he would make a really good nurse. Although, do you think boys are allowed to be nurses?"

Santana doesn't respond. She just keeps walking into the mess hall, Quinn by her side and Brittany right behind her. She's having a hard time suppressing the smile on her face, however, as Brittany continues to talk about her nurse cat.

She expects Brittany to find her own table, but instead she takes a seat next to Santana as they sit down with her lunch. Santana doesn't really listen to her—Brittany's anecdotes are funny, but nonsensical, and Quinn looks like she's growing more annoyed by the moment. She doesn't really understand why. Yes, Quinn is a little annoyed with everyone almost all of the time, but, of all the fellow nurses she's met so far, this girl seems the least annoying. She's a little daffy, but somehow it's charming on her.

Quinn's probably just jealous, really. She's used to being the most beautiful girl around, and this Brittany certainly gives her a run for her money. First of all, her hair looks like it may be slightly more naturally blond than Quinn's. Sure, she probably puts some highlights in it, but Santana knows for certain that Quinn's hair is completely brown. And yes, Quinn's eyes are a beautiful, hazel, that shift colors depending on the weather or her mood or what clothes she's wearing, but she's never seen eyes like Brittany's. They're a perfect, crystal blue. They are the most piercing eyes Santana has ever seen.

Suddenly they are full of questions, gazing at Santana with her eyebrows raised.

"Santana?" Brittany asks.

"Yes?" Santana replies, clearing her throat and shuffling the remaining food around her plate.

"I asked if you'd ever been to the beach." Brittany says, raising her eyebrows.

"Oh. Sorry, I was off in my own world for a second there. I went to the Jersey shore once with my family. I don't really like the ocean though." Santana swallows the lie. It feels acidic on her tongue—like swallowing vinegar to find out if you have the mumps.

The truth is, Santana loves the beach. When she was a little girl and they lived in Puerto Rico, she used to spend her summers on the beach building sandcastles and swimming with her friends. She liked the feeling of the sand between her toes and even the way the salt water stung slightly when it got into her eyes or into the scrapes on her knees. She liked to sit and watch the tide coming in and think about what amazing things may exist on the other side of the water—or if another side of the water really existed at all.

The ocean was Santana's free, beautiful, magical place that she could go to escape. Even when she was a little girl, she was always daydreaming about what amazing things could exist beyond wherever she currently was.

She didn't lie about going to the Jersey shore. She went there, once, a few years after they had moved to New York. She had been begging her family to go all summer. They were met with a beach full of slurs and families wondering who let _them _there. Santana spent most of the day hiding in the bathroom. It was the only place to find cover among the open sands and waves.

Suddenly the ocean felt more like a cage trapping her in than a window to freedom. She stopped going to the beach after that.

She's broken out of her trance by Quinn's laughter.

"What's so funny?" She asks.

"Brittany just asked if your family is in the mob," Quinn says. There are tears forming at the corners of Quinn's eyes as she laughs. Santana smiles at Brittany. It takes a lot to get Quinn to laugh like that.

"No, Brittany, my family's not in the mob," Santana says, trying to feign annoyance at the question, but she knows that it's harmless, and somehow, for once, she's doing a poor job of feigning anything.

"But you're Italian, right?" Brittany asks.

"Well, yes," Santana lies again. That feeling is back—that vinegar running down her swollen glands. "But not all Italian's are in the mob. You watch too many movies, Brittany."

"I love the movies," Brittany says. "My favorites are anything with Katherine Hepburn and the Thin Man movies. They're so funny. I love Asta."

"Well, you and Santana will get along _swimmingly_ then," Quinn says with a scoff. "She practically wants to _be_ Myrna Loy, the way she talks about her." Santana just rolls her eyes as Quinn continues with her barbs and Brittany talks breathlessly away.

* * *

><p>To Santana's surprise, Brittany stays with them all day. She sits with them at lunch, and she stands next to them as they go through different training sessions throughout the day. Santana doesn't talk much, but, for whatever reason, Brittany's stories make her smile.<p>

"Are you okay, Brittany?" Santana asks as they stand in a circle watching a surgeon do a demonstration for them. Brittany has her forehead wrinkled in confusion and she's fidgeting with her uniform.

"I just don't understand…" Brittany says. Her little cap is sitting half-off of her head. She clutches at it, as though holding it tighter will answer her questions.

"Its just anesthesia, Brittany." Santana says. Santana demonstrates how to administer the inhalant anesthesia that could be used on the field with the masks they've all were handed when they walked into the room. She gently presses it to Brittany's face.

"I understand how to give it to the soldiers, but…I thought nurses were meant to make the soldiers feel good…why would we make them feel nothing?" Brittany says. Her voice is muzzled through the mask. Santana lowers it, unable to stop the smile forming across her lips at Brittany's logic, at the sound of Brittany's fuzzy voice.

"Well, when they're hurt, this makes it so they don't feel the pain, but we can still do things to make them feel happy. This way they don't feel the hurt." Brittany seems to think for a moment, before nodding and grinning.

"Thanks, Santana,"

"Of course, Britt." Santana's surprised to hear the nickname fall out of her mouth so easily. Quinn catches Santana's eye, raising an eyebrow at her. Santana rolls her eyes back at Quinn and puts her steely gaze back on.

* * *

><p>Their second day ends much like the first. The girls gossip and set their hair and listen to some music. Everyone is tired and a little homesick. It seems that the reality that they'll be away from their homes—from their lives—for an unforeseen amount of time is starting to sink in with everyone.<p>

"Think less tonight, okay, Santana?" Brittany whispers as they're falling asleep that night.

"I'll try, Britt," Santana says, rolling her eyes at herself for slipping into that nickname again. "What do you do, so you don't think at night?"

"I think about things that relax me. Like, flowers and boats bobbing in a harbor and the way my cat purrs when I scratch behind his ears in the right place. What relaxes you, Santana?"

"I don't know," Santana says, sighing. "Music, I guess. The sound of my mother's sewing machine. Rain and the sound of cars driving through rain."

"I like those things," Brittany says, rolling onto her side so she can see Santana looking back at her. "Well, I like all of those things except for the sound of cars driving through rain. I don't think I even know what it sounds like when a car drives through rain."

"I'm a city girl," Santana says, smiling. "I've lived in New York almost all of my life. Cars drive through the rain outside my window all the time. It's nice. The sound of the wheels against the puddles, the windshield wipers moving rhythmically…people drive in a pattern in the rain. It's like a metronome. It just puts you to sleep."

"Where did you live before?" Brittany asks. Santana almost answers, not thinking about the front she is supposed to be keeping, simply lulled into conversation with the strange blonde.

"It doesn't matter," Santana says.

"Okay, Ana," Brittany says.

"Please don't call me that," Santana says, smiling a little despite the annoyance in her tone.

"How about San?" Brittany asks.

"That's better, but don't start using it all the time. I like the…Italian…flair of my full name." Santana rolls her eyes into the dark sky as another lie falls off her lips.

"Fair enough, Santana. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Brittany."

* * *

><p>"Santana! Santana!" Brittany yells, running across the green in the center of their training center to catch up with Santana.<p>

"What is with that girl, Santana?" Quinn says, rolling her eyes. "She's following you like she's your pet! Can't she make some new friends?"

"Don't talk about her like that," Santana snaps at Quinn. "I think she's kind of nice. She's strange, but it's kind of endearing, don't you think?" Quinn raises her eyebrows at Santana.

"I never thought I'd see the day. Santana Lo-" Quinn stops when Santana glares at her. "Santana Lopresti actually defending someone new."

"You couldn't be my only friend forever, Quinn."

"Wow, she's your friend now?"

"Cut it out, Quinn," Santana says as Brittany reaches them. "Hey, Britt!" Santana says, smiling.

"Hey, San!"

"Why are you rushing over here? You look like a crazy person! Did you get good news?"

"No," Brittany says, her face falling slightly. "Just wanted to say hi!"

"You really are bananas, Brittany." Santana says, grinning. "Just completely bananas."

"Well, I think bananas are delicious, don't you, San?" Brittany says, linking her arm through Santana's. "Although, they kind of look like a man's thing-a-ling, don't you think?" Brittany says under her breath.

"Brittany!" Santana and Quinn say simultaneously. "You can't just say things like that," Quinn hisses.

"I'm married, I'm pretty sure I'm allowed to. Besides, you girls aren't virgins anymore, are you?" Brittany asks with a cheeky grin.

"Quinn here is," Santana whispers, a smirk on her face.

"Santana!" Quinn says. "Both of you are too much for me today. I'm going back to the barracks." Quinn storms away.

"You really are bananas, Britt," Santana says, laughing. Brittany shrugs.

"Want to go look for dandelions with me before we have triage at 1400?" Brittany's bouncing on her feet again in anticipation. Santana laughs.

"Okay," she says, grinning, not really sure why, but something about Brittany makes her follow along.

* * *

><p>"So, wait," Blanca says, interrupting Santana. Santana raises her eyebrows at her daughter. "Are you not friends with Brittany anymore because Aunt Quinn doesn't like her?"<p>

"No, no. If you ever let me finish my story we could get there, my lovely, talkative children. It was a little contentious between them at first. Brittany was a little…ditzy, I think is the word you use for it today. I always liked to think of it as lost somewhere in the clouds, and you know your Aunt Quinn. She's a pragmatist, through and through. Eventually, however, they became friends, although I think they both always found each other a bit puzzling."

"How long did you train for, Mama?"

"Four months. It flew by."

* * *

><p>"Any mail today, Britt?" Santana asks as Brittany finishes taking her makeup off. She's asked her the same question every night for the two months they've been in training. The answer is always the same. Brittany makes eye contact with Santana through the mirror and shakes her head. "I'm sure he's fine, honey," Santana says, placing a hair net over her rollers. "Remember, no news is good news."<p>

"You have all these riddles," Brittany says, laughing at Santana. "No pain is good. No news is good. 'Nothing' isn't good where I come from. 'Nothing' is sad and empty and lonely."

"Well, you're from California, Britt. Everyone knows that everything is crazy out there," Santana says, grinning.

"Does everyone know that?" Brittany asks, her face furrowed in genuine confusion.

"They sure do," Santana says, nodding reassuringly at Brittany.

"I don't think I like that. I want everything, Santana, not nothing. Nothing makes me sad." Santana takes Brittany's hand and squeezes it for a moment before letting it drop between them.

"Did you hear Rachel and Dolores talking about that new surgeon who was training us today?" Santana asks, changing the subject. "They are such dips if they think they can get a man like that by giggling like lovesick fools around him." Santana is pleased when Brittany smiles, seeming to forget about their previous conversation.

"They sure are knuckleheads," Brittany says. "I should know. I'm a knucklehead, too."

"You're not a knucklehead, Britt!" Santana laughs. "You're just bananas. And, you know how much we like bananas!" She gives Brittany a cheeky grin.

"There's nothing better than a big, sweet banana," Brittany smiles. They both break out in girlish giggles before their commander warns them that it's lights out in five.

Santana can't sleep again. She never knows which nights she'll fall asleep easily and which she will toss and turn all night long. She listens to the steady breathing of the girls around them, the distinct, light snoring of Quinn that she's had ever since she broke her nose playing stoopball two years ago.

"You still awake, San?" Brittany whispers. Santana turns on to her side so that she's facing Brittany.

"Kind of," Santana whispers back. "What's wrong?"

"I was thinking about what you said earlier. If I tell you something, can you promise to not tell anyone?"

"Of course, Brittany," Santana says, her voice now serious, a little of the sleep cleared out of it.

"Because I want to tell you, because we're best friends, right, Santana?" Santana smiles and thinks back on the last two months.

"Yeah, I suppose we are, Brittany." Santana can feel Brittany smiling through the darkness, from all the way on the bed across from her own. "What did you want to talk about, Britt?" Santana whispers, a little quieter now after she heard Dolores cough in the distance from her bed.

"Its not that important, or at least, I don't think it is, but other people are embarrassed by it so I learned not to talk about it."

"It's okay, Britt. Whatever it is, I'll still be your friend." There's a long silence before Brittany begins talking again.

"I was thinking about what you said earlier. My parents talk about 'nothing' sometimes. I'm not really from California, you know? I'm from Oklahoma." Brittany waits for Santana to say something, but she's quiet. "My parents talk about nothing sometimes. They talk about nothing and emptiness and hunger and driving for days so that we could have something. I was little though, so I don't remember it as well."

"How old were you when you moved?" Santana asks.

"Eight," Brittany says. Santana looks at the ceiling, doing the math in her head.

"Dust Bowl?" She asks. Brittany nods.

"Like I said, I don't really remember it though," Brittany says, responding to the sad look on Santana's face. "My big brother, the biggest, Johnny, just picked me up one day and told me that we were going on an adventure. That's what it felt like to me. Just one big adventure."

"You didn't miss home at all?" Santana asks, remembering how miserable she was when her family first moved to New York. Brittany shakes her head.

"My mama thinks that I just blocked it all out of my mind. She calls me her ray of sunshine, because she says I don't see the bad in nothing. I don't know if that's true." Brittany says, shifts in her bed and pulling the blankets high around her neck. She yawns, settling her head into the pillow. "All I clearly remember about Oklahoma is the lilacs. When I was really little, the bushes would explode like purple stars. They smell so good, Santana. I would lie out, in between the bushes, and it felt like I was floating in a perfect, sweet purple heaven. You ever see a lilac bush, Santana?"

"I don't know, Britt."

"Well, when we get back from the war, I'll have to take you to see one." Santana feels herself begin to drift toward sleep, the silence and the darkness in the room overtaking her. "Santana?" Brittany whispers into the quiet space between them.

"Yeah, Britt?"

"You don't like me less now that you know I'm an Okie, do you?"

"Of course not, Britt." They lay in silence again. Santana feels that familiar guilt filling up her stomach. Brittany just admitted something big to her, yet here she was, still pretending to be Italian. Brittany, however, couldn't be kicked out of the Army Nurses Corp for being an Okie. Santana could for being Puerto Rican. It still didn't feel good, however, to pretend about something as fundamental as her race, her ethnicity, literally the place where she came from.

"Santana?"

"Yeah?" Santana says through a yawn.

"Sorry, you're sleepy."

"It's okay, Britt. What were you going to say?"

"I remember feeling nothing though, kind of. Not as clearly as I remember the lilacs, but I remember on days I forgot to eat lunch or when I got lost coming home from school, so I missed dinner. I remember sometimes feeling so hungry it felt like my insides were being burned up by the nothing. Like my brain was going to stop because it had nothing in it, like I was just floating on nothing. You always have to feel something, San." They lay in silence again, but suddenly Santana isn't as tired as before.

"Would you rather feel nothing or feel everything, Brittany?" Santana asks.

"Everything. Isn't that what life is about?"

"Even the bad things?"

"It's the only way to know when things are good," Brittany says. She yawns. "Goodnight, Santana."

"Goodnight, Brittany."


	3. Chapter 3: Long Island, 1942

**Author's Note:  
><strong>

Thank you all for your wonderful reviews. I promise, your questions will be answered in due time. If you have any really pressing questions you can always check in on my Tumblr, Seahorsesantana.

Again, I really appreciate all of your reviews, they are what keep me writing!

Quick warning for this chapter: there is racially charged language.

And, as always, so many thanks to my unbelievable beta,howaboutno. I couldn't update without her!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2: Long Island, 1942<strong>

Her mother is full of secrets. This isn't new information for Blanca. Her father was full of secrets too, but he died before she really had a chance to question him about his.

Her mother has stopped telling her story, for the moment, so that Blanca can make them a pot of coffee. She doesn't really understand why they need it—it's only 9:30, and for Blanca, that means the night hasn't really even begun. Her siblings are well into their thirties though, and because of their children they're accustomed to sleeping at dusk and waking up at dawn. Blanca, on the other hand, is a 24-year-old writer, and she likes her mornings and evenings late.

That's not really relevant now, though. She's still stuck making the coffee. She's still back in her childhood kitchen wondering what kinds of secrets these walls hold.

Her parents are full of secrets. It's one thing to operate under the assumption that they have them; it's quite another to hear them shared all of the sudden.

There is a weight to that, somehow.

When you're a child, you assume everyone's household is like your own. Her father was a lawyer, so he always worked long hours and frequently went out with clients late at night. Her mom was home with them until her father passed away, and her mother went back to school. She remembers being surprised to find that not all parents slept in separate rooms or took long vacations away from each other. The concept of a family vacation was foreign to Blanca. There were vacations with mom and vacations with dad and vacations mom and dad took separately.

She shuts her eyes, listening to the sound of the coffee percolate.

Her mother is talking to them now, but Blanca knows the secrets were always there.

They were in found buried deep in boxes, in the pictures of people they weren't supposed to talk about it—people they weren't supposed to know existed. They were in the late night fights and hushed phone calls and the snide remarks made over the dinner table after "pass the peas".

This secret doesn't make any sense.

Brittany sounds like a normal, ditzy eighteen-year-old about to be sent into the throes of war. There is no real reason for her mother to keep her a secret.

The way her mother talks about her, it doesn't sound like something tragic happened to Brittany. It just sounds like Brittany is now absent from her mother's life.

Their house is full of secrets, though. Blanca doesn't know why she's surprised.

She never knew her mother pretended to pass as Italian when she was in the war.

Her father never shared anything about his time in the war.

She never knew where they went when they went on their individual vacations.

She didn't know why they fought in her earliest memories or why they had pretty much stopped talking to one another in her later ones or why her mother went back to school. She didn't even really know what happened to her father. An accident, her mother said. She left it at that. Blanca knew better than to ask. When her mother didn't want to share something, she wasn't going to.

Even the little things were secrets.

This photograph, this silly photograph, so prominently displayed above the sink is a secret. Blanca asked Santana where it was taken when she was fifteen, and Santana told her not to ask so many questions and to set the table. She asked again, many times, hoping her mother would be in a better mood, but still, this photograph was a secret of her mother's. It's so silly. It's just a sailboat, sitting out on a placid body of water, maybe taken from a porch of some kind. She doesn't remember ever going on a trip where there would have been sailboats and wrap-around porches.

These are secrets only for the sake of keeping them. There is no reason for Santana to hide the origin of this picture, and as far as Blanca can tell, there is no reason for Santana to have kept Brittany as this mystery woman for all this time. Silly secrets created just to keep people out. Blanca looks closer at the photograph. In the corner, scrawled in black calligraphy, reads "1954." A year before Blanca was born. That would explain why she doesn't remember the picture.

Maybe she's starting to see secrets where they don't even exist.

She hears the coffee machine stop dripping, and she refills everyone's cups.

"Took you long enough," her mother says, as she enters the room.

"I'm sorry, Mama, that I can't make coffee brew any faster," Blanca says rolling her eyes.

"Okay, young lady, where was I? You're the one pushing for all of the details in this story.

"You were in training. Brittany just confessed to you that she's an Okie."

"Right. So, as I'm sure you can imagine, training dragged on and on," Santana says, taking a sip of her hot black coffee. "We were all starting to grow antsy about where life would take us next."

* * *

><p>"Let's put on a record, okay?" Santana asks their bunk. They're trying to unwind after a particularly hard day of emergency tent building drills. Brittany nods and crawls over to her bed to pull out a magazine, listening to Santana fumble with the needle and light a cigarette.<p>

"There's a thing about Myrna Loy in here, San," Brittany says, looking up from her magazine at Santana fixing her hair in the mirror.

"What's it say?"

"She's taking a break from film to volunteer for the Red Cross."

"See, I knew there was a reason I liked her," Santana says.

"Who are you listening to now?" Brittany asks, looking up from her magazine to see Santana taking a drag from her cigarette and tapping her foot to the beat.

"Benny Goodman," Santana replies. "Haven't you heard this record, Britt?" Brittany shrugs her shoulders.

"I dance to the music. I don't always pay attention to who is playing it. That's Artie's job. He loves Louis Armstrong. He doesn't play the trumpet, but sometimes he tries to scat like him. He has a deep voice. Not as deep as Louis Armstrong's, obviously, but still, he's pretty good."

"No wonder you love him," Santana smiles. "I wish I could scat. Bibbidi-be-bop-doo-wee," Santana says, watching her lips move in the mirror. Brittany giggles. "Have you heard Billie Holiday?" Santana asks. Brittany shakes her head and throws her magazine on the ground, lying on the bed with her arms cradling her head. Santana switches the record, fumbling with the needle to get to the track she wants. As _Easy Living_ begins to play, Santana stands up and begins dancing with herself. Brittany smiles and takes a drag of the cigarette left burning in the ashtray, watching Santana sashay back and forth with an invisible person.

"Are you thinking of Sam?" Brittany asks. She coughs as she exhales the smoke from her lungs. Santana thinks about it for a moment and laughs.

"I think I'm thinking of Billie Holiday. Boy, what I would do to sound like her."

"You have a beautiful voice, Santana."

"Still, I'm no Lady Day."

"Maybe you will be, one day. When this war is over."

"Maybe," Santana says, softly.

"Ugh, Santana, will you ever get sick of this song?" Quinn asks, walking in with rollers in her hair and a white silk robe tied tightly around her waist.

"Never, you know that, Q." Santana replies, grinning. "Me and Billie are like you and Frank Sinatra. Together forever." Brittany giggles at their banter. It's obvious that they've known each other for a long time.

"Don't encourage her, B," Quinn said, throwing a pillow at Brittany. She reached over Santana, taking a cigarette from her pack of Lucky Strikes and lights it with a match.

"Oh, you love it, Q," Santana says, laughing and grabbing the pillow from Brittany and throwing it back at Quinn.

"Boy, do I wish we could go dancing," Brittany says, mostly to herself. "I really miss dancing."

"New York City has the best dancing in the world," Santana says, matter-of-factly. "One day, B, you can come visit the Big Apple, for fun instead of for work," she gestures around their bare room. "You can take me to the botanical gardens to see the Lilac bushes. I'm sure they have them. They have every kind of flower. Then I'll take you uptown to go dancing."

"Sounds like a plan, San." Brittany says through a grin. "I rhymed!"

* * *

><p>Santana still can't really sleep. It's gotten better since their first night in the barracks, but it's still not good. She doesn't know what it is. Their beds and blankets aren't exactly comfortable, but they're also not the worst things Santana has ever slept in.<p>

There's a gnawing in Santana's chest at night. Maybe it's for fear of what's to come or fear for Sam or just plain homesickness. Santana doesn't know. What she does know is that more often than not it keeps her up tossing and turning at night.

Whatever it is, she can't seem to let it go.

Brittany takes to telling her stories to fall asleep, from their beds next to one another. They're always different. Sometimes, they are stories about her little sister. They all call her Cricket, because her cries as a baby sounded like the chirping of a cricket. She tells stories about Cricket and her pet donkey, about unicorns lost in seas of wildflowers, or about the magical language of dolphins' discovering love for the first time.

She never knows when Brittany's stories are completely fantastical or when they are explaining something to Santana that she needs to hear. She knows by now that the line between allegory and escapism, metaphor and complete fantasy, are completely blurred in Brittany's stories.

It doesn't really matter though. What matters is Brittany's stories put her to sleep in the beautiful, nightmare-free way.

"Did I ever tell you about the tortoise and the hare, Santana?" Brittany whispers across the darkness.

"Everyone knows about the tortoise and the hare, Britt," Santana yawns. "Slow and steady wins the race."

"Not that tortoise and hare," Brittany says. "This tortoise and hare knew each other for a long time. They lived in a village full of wolves. Neither really knew how they got there, but they were both scared of the wolves, so they spent a lot of time together. It was hard for them at first, because the tortoise moved so slowly. He thought everything through. In fact, he thought too much about everything there was to think about. He was scared the wolves would catch him and eat him one day, because everyone knows tortoise meat is delicious. He was scared they would catch him, because he was too busy thinking, or because he was too slow to avoid them. So he spent time with the hare.

The hare was the exact opposite of the tortoise. The hare could run _so _fast, no one could ever catch her. The hare was beautiful and graceful and everything the tortoise wasn't. But the hare was too busy running, dancing, or playing to notice when danger was nearby. She could be easily tricked by the wolves into a trap and made into dinner. So even though the tortoise and the hare didn't know why they were friends, it protected both of them. And even though they didn't really like each other, they _needed_ each other, so they became inseparable."

They lay in silence after Brittany finishes her story. Brittany wonders if Santana has fallen asleep, her body attuned to the rise and fall of Santana's breath.

"Sometimes your stories make me sad, Brittany," Santana says, finally, drifting into sleep.

"Can't help it," Brittany whispers, still wide awake.

* * *

><p>"Do my hair the way you did the other night!" Brittany says to Santana, excitedly.<p>

"You two are _so_ weird," Dolores says. "I just don't understand why _you_ have men, and _I _don't."

"Because you're about as appealing as Hitler," Santana says, scoffing.

"Santana," Brittany scolds, looking up at Santana in the mirror.

"Sorry, Britt," Santana says, continuing to work on Brittany's hair. "I'm sorry!" Santana says again, seeing the disapproving look frozen on Brittany's face.

"That was _way _too mean." Brittany says.

"I said I was sorry, okay?"

"Quiet down!" Rachel yells from the other side of the room. She turns up the radio.

"_The sound you hear is army, navy, and marine planes cooperating with the fleet and surprise a Jap invasion force sent to capture strategic Midway Island,_" the voice booms over the radio, the sound of planes and explosions and brass music behind him. as he continues,_ "stepping stone to Hawaii and the North American continent. US planes roar to the attack amid a rain of anti-aircraft fire. Below, a blazing enemy cruiser fatally hit, maneuvering to get away. The Japs seek desperately to escape. The toll, 18 Japanese ships, cruisers, carriers, and destroyers, a defeat more than equal to that Japan suffered in the Battle of the Coral Sea."_

Everyone is huddled around the radio now, so close to it that Santana barely notices Brittany slip out of the room. Quinn sees Santana silently remove herself as well, but decides to not follow them.

"Brittany?" Santana asks, confronted by the chilly evening air. "Britt?" She turns when she hears slight gasping around the corner. "Britt, honey, what's wrong?" Santana asks when she sees her sitting at the curb, her knees pulled up around her chest. Santana sits gingerly next to her, resting her hand on Brittany's back. "Brittany?"

"I hate this," Brittany says, tears silently leaving streaks down her face. "I hate this war."

"This is a good thing, Britt! We won!" Santana says.

"That doesn't mean that Artie or Sam are any safer, San. What if they were in that battle? What if their boats sank? What about the wives and fiancés of all of those men whose boats _we_ sank?"

"Who cares about them?" Santana says, stiffening. "Crazy Japs, they deserved to die!"

"No one _deserves_ to die, Santana! I know Japanese people! They're not crazy."

"Yeah, Japanese people _here_, Brittany. Come on. You're being ridiculous. These are the people who are fighting your husband, your brothers, my fiancé!"

"And _we're _killing _theirs!_ How can you say those things?" Brittany asks, looking at Santana with her eyes wide, as though she's never seen her before. "How can you just call them Japs and assume that they don't matter? That's like…it's like calling people nigger and spic and all those other terrible things and saying that they _deserve _to die!"

"Don't say that word, Brittany," Santana says. It comes out like a growl, deep and under her breath.

"You're doing the same thing! Why is Spic any different from Jap?"

Santana can't tell her why. She can't tell her why it feels different to her, or why she suddenly feels so uncomfortable using those other words when they used to fall off her tongue so easily. So, she goes with the obvious excuse. "But they're the enemy, Brittany," Santana says, softly.

"They're still people." They sit in silence, both trying to calm themselves down.

"You're a really good person, Brittany," Santana says, softly. "I don't know how you can sit there and be sad for people you don't know when your husband may be dead."

"Don't say that, Santana."

"I'm sorry." They sit in silence again. Santana strokes comforting circles on Brittany's back.

"I'm sad for them, because I'm sad for me, I think. Everyone is sad. Everyone is losing children, lovers, friends. I can't stand to think about it."

"Let's not think about it then. Not for tonight, at least. Let's go listen to some music, okay?" Brittany nods and slowly eases herself up from the ground. "Sam and Artie and your brothers are going to be okay, Britt," Santana says as she leads her back inside.

"Let's just listen to some music. Let's just forget, for tonight, okay?"

"Okay," Santana nods. Brittany turns and wraps her arms around Santana's shoulders. It takes Santana by surprise; her hands dangle awkwardly behind Brittany's back before clasping them together, burying her nose into Brittany's shoulder.

"Thanks for being there tonight, San."

"Always, Britt," Santana says. She pulls away, but they're still standing close together, their hands clasped. It makes Santana blush. She doesn't know why, so she looks at her feet instead of into Brittany's eyes.

"You two okay?" Quinn asks, popping her head out of the door with her eyebrow raised. They both nod and step slightly away from one another.

"We're going to listen to some music, distract ourselves," Santana says. Brittany grins, thanking her.

"They're going to be okay, ladies," Quinn says. "Sam is going to be okay," she looks at Santana now, and she can hear the choke in her voice.

"Let's just not think about it anymore tonight, okay, Quinn?" Brittany asks.

"Sounds fine by me. And, Santana, anything other than Billie Holiday, okay?" Santana grins.

"I can make an exception tonight, Q."

* * *

><p>Brittany doesn't tell her any stories that night. They lay in bed, silently. Santana can tell by the rise and fall of Brittany's breath that she's awake.<p>

"You okay, Britt?" Santana asks. Brittany doesn't respond. She reaches across their bunks and finds Santana's hand, linking their pinkies together.

"No stories tonight, Santana," Brittany says.

* * *

><p>"So, that was the Battle of Midway, right, Mama?" Edward asks.<p>

"Yes. It was always one of your father's prouder moments that he fought in it."

"Oh, we know. He always had stories from Midway to tell."

"I didn't get to hear any of them," Blanca protests.

"They weren't that interesting," her brother says. "Nothing like Vietnam."

"I really can't deal with anymore of your Vietnam stories," Blanca says. "Let Mama continue.

Santana runs her hands through her hair, wondering how long she can let this story continue before it becomes too much for her. There is a reason she has let the past remain in the past.

"Well, like all things in life, it really felt like it was over before it even began."

* * *

><p>Santana's smoking in bed, watching Quinn pack, watching Brittany play with her fingers nervously, watching Rachel talk animatedly about Judy Garland to a bored-looking Dolores.<p>

"This is going to be exciting, don't you think?" Brittany asks. She doesn't look excited. She looks nervous and like her hands are the most fascinating things she's seen in years.

"I wish I were going with you," Quinn says sadly, rolling some pantyhose into a tight ball. Brittany pulls Quinn into a tight hug. Brittany, Santana, Rachel, and Dolores have been assigned to the 48th Surgical Unit. They're going to Scotland, and they don't know what's happening after that. Quinn is in a different unit, though. She's shipping out for France the next day.

"We'll be back together in no time, Q. Just you see," Brittany says, pulling away from Quinn to flash her a bright smile.

"Santana," Quinn says softly as she broke her hug with Brittany.

"I know, Q, I know. I don't want to talk about it, and just think about when we're back, dancing up a storm in Harlem."

"I'm scared," Quinn whispers.

"Remember what I told you when we met. Don't take anything from anybody. I'll see you back in the Bronx in no time, okay, Q?" Quinn nods.

"I can't deal with the two of you looking so sad. You know what? This is our last night in the great US of A. Let's get out of here."

"Santana, you know we're not allowed to leave."

"What's the worst that can happen? It's not like we're _actually_ soldiers. Can nurses go AWOL?" The other two girls shrug. "That's what I thought. We're going dancing. End our last night in New York City with a bang."

"I don't know," Quinn says. "What if one of the MP's catches us? We can get in trouble for even being away past lights-out, let alone for leaving the fort and going dancing."

"You worry too much, Q," Santana replies. Quinn is looking thoughtful, a smirk growing on her face.

"The Savoy?" Quinn asks, unable to hide the excitement in her voice.

"The Savoy." Santana says. "You like to dance, right, Britt?"

"I love dancing."

"Then get ready. We're going to have a night on the town! I don't know how they dance out in California, but you're in for the ride of your life."

* * *

><p>"Let's find Q a husband," Santana says to Brittany, squeezed next to her in the back of the cab an hour later.<p>

"No, a husband is no fun. Let's find Q a soldier for the night."

"Both of you stop. I just want to dance and have one more night of fun. Do you know how to Lindy Hop, Brittany?"

"Of course!"

"You'll fit right in then, Brittany," Santana says. "Although, I'm the best. Good luck keeping up with me," Santana says as she leads them out of the cab.

Santana loves the Savoy. The music is loud, and the people never stop dancing. She loves the sound of the bass and snare drums tapping along to the beat, the squeal of the trumpets, and the wail of the saxophone. She loves that it always smells like a combination of sex, sweat, booze, and cigarette smoke.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Santana turns to see a sailor in complete uniform leaning next to her on the bar.

"Only if you're buying for my friends, too," Santana says, winking. He nods to them and in moments the bartender has pushed three whiskies in their direction.

"You shouldn't have done that, Santana," Brittany whispers to her. "You're engaged, and I'm married."

"I don't see the harm," Santana shrugs. "It was nice to meet you, sailor," Santana says, throwing back her drink and gesturing for the other women to do the same.

"Can I at least get a dance?" He asks, winking at her.

"If you think you can keep up," Santana replies, leading him to the dance floor. It turns out that he's not a bad dancer. He wasn't even close to the best of the dancers at the Savoy, but the boy clearly knew how to swing. Santana rolls into him, and he even swings her up in the air a few times. A circle is forming behind them, and Santana and the sailor part to see what the excitement is about. She sees a flash of blond hair whip by as someone is flipped in the air before settling flawlessly behind her partner. Santana quickly recognizes one of the Savoy's professional dancers. She had never been so lucky to dance with one of them, and Santana was pretty sure she had never seen one of the professionals out danced by an amateur before. They were a blur of legs and flips and feet swinging unnaturally fast.

"You stopped dancing," the sailor says.

"You're perceptive, sailor."

"Would you like another drink?" He asked.

"Sure," she replies. He walks away, and suddenly Quinn is at her side.

"Who knew Brittany could dance like that," Quinn says.

"I'll say. She's amazing."

The sailor brings her another whiskey, but Santana can't take her eyes off the pair dancing in the middle of the room. Apparently, neither can anyone else in the bar. The focus has shifted, from others dancing and from the band, to watch them gyrate and sway in ways that most people knew were possible, but never thought they'd see in person. She doesn't notice when her sailor walks away, bored by her lack of attention. She can't help it. She loses track of time, loses track of the number of cigarettes she has smoked, loses track of the number of drinks she consumed.

"You haven't moved all night," Quinn slurs, bumping into Santana. Santana shakes her head. "She's an amazing dancer." Santana nods. "What's with you, anyway? I've never seen you like this." Santana doesn't bother responding. She doesn't know the answer to Quinn's question. Instead she takes another sip of her whiskey, hoping it will make whatever she is feeling disappear.

"We should get going," she finally says.

* * *

><p>Santana wakes up the next morning with her hand dangling from her bed over to Brittany's and their pinkies linked.<p>

"What happened last night?" Santana asks through a yawn.

"We couldn't get you to stop crying," Brittany says, unlinking their pinkies and reaching between the beds to gently rub Santana's back.

"Sorry about that. I do that sometimes, when I'm drunk."

"What are you sad about?"

"Nothing, I think. Just drunk. Or maybe Sam. Who knows?" Santana shrugs. The truth is she doesn't want to think about whatever it is that makes her sad. It gives her that feeling like she's trying to remember a word, and it's on the tip of her tongue, but for whatever reason she can't quite reach it. That's how her sadness feels. She knows it is there, and she knows that somewhere in her mind she knows why, but she can never quite grasp the information. Sometimes she thinks that it's just because she doesn't want to.

"What's it like in California, Brittany?"

"I don't know. Same as it's like everywhere, I guess."

"I want to be in pictures when I get back. I love the pictures."

"You could, Santana. You're pretty enough."

"You think so?" Brittany nods. "When we get back, I'm going to move to Hollywood and become a movie star and live in one of those big houses on the beach."

"What about Sam?"

"He can come, too."

"What about me?"

"You already live in California, Britt!" Santana says, grinning through her hangover.

"Not that part, though. I live north. I've never even been to Los Angeles."

"Then you can come too, Britt. You can be a dancer like Ginger Rogers."

"I think I'd like that."

"It's almost wake up time," Santana whispers. Brittany nods.

"Thanks for taking us out last night," Brittany says, once Santana is settled in her bed. "I had fun."

"Me, too. We should go dancing more often."

* * *

><p>"I received one more letter before we left. I still have it," Santana says, going into her bedroom.<p>

"Okay, where is Abuela's story going?" Amanda whispers to her brother.

"I have no idea," Ryan says, looking genuinely baffled by it all.

Santana returns with an old cigar box. It was probably green at one point, but now it's just a faded gray and the top is barely holding on by a few strings hinging it together. There is Arabic scrawled on the top. She rifles through it for a moment, before pulling out a yellowed letter.

_My Dearest Santana,_

_They tell me this is the fashion to begin a letter to your sweetheart when you are at war, but it seems a little silly to me, addressing you as my dearest when I have known you as so many things for so many years. You are my friend, my confidante, and my protector, Santana. You are also my dearest, my sweetheart, and my fiancée. Most of all though, you are my friend. I'm glad to hear you are joining the Nurses Corp; I hope you and Quinn are lucky enough to be placed together. I know from experience that it is hard to be a stranger in a strange land with nothing to remind you of home._

_I miss New York. I miss watching you dance and hearing you sing and late nights laughing with Quinn smoking cigarettes and drinking whiskey on the fire escape, listening to jazz on the radio. I miss the noise of the city. It is quiet here, unless there is fighting._

_It's not all lonely. I've made a friend. His name is Kurt, and he is from a small town in Ohio. He enlisted, because he was tired of working on cars with his father. He wants to go to Hollywood and be a movie star, just like you. I think you will like him. I hope you get to meet him someday. He is quieter than the other men; he often seems lonely and lost in his own world. Sometimes he reminds me of you in that way. Always quietly dreaming of something big._

_I have to go now, but I will write you as soon as I get the chance. Give Quinn my love._

_Love always,_

_Sam_

Santana neatly folds the letter and places it back in the box. She pulls out a picture.

"Here's a picture of Brittany, Quinn and I before we went out that night at the Savoy. Brittany was always so attached to that camera of hers." She pulls out a picture of the three of them, all dressed in high waist skirts, button down blouses, and short pumps. Santana has her arms around Brittany and Quinn and the three of them are grinning.

"You look happy, Mama," her son says.

"I think we were."


	4. Chapter 4: Scotland, 1942

**A/N:** So...I realize that it's been six months. I'm horrible. But I will be updating weekly from here on out, if anyone is still interested in reading.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3: Scotland, 1942<strong>

"I think I'm done with this story for tonight," Santana says, sighing. She places the letter back in the box and looks at the bottom of her empty coffee mug

"You're joking, right?" Blanca asks. Santana gives Blanca a look that clearly says, "No, I'm not joking," and she eyes her eldest son wearily. He's shifting in his seat, the way he did when he was a little boy and was being reprimanded for his behavior. He doesn't make eye contact with her. Blanca, as usual, is oblivious to the subtle interaction between Santana and her son.

"You can't just begin a story like this and not end it, Mama," Blanca says, flipping her now limp curls over her shoulder. Santana rolls her eyes at her daughter's attitude. She reminds her of herself in her twenties. "Say something!" Blanca yells to SK. He shrugs her shoulders, staring at Santana, his eyes tired, older than his years.

Sometimes, Santana has trouble believing he is her child. He came out of her, of course, she remembers that clearly enough. She had morning sickness throughout nearly the whole pregnancy, terrible heartburn, and he was nearly two weeks late. They finally induced labor when Santana didn't think she could handle another day of the swollen feet, aching back, and the need to pee every fifteen minutes.

"_This one doesn't want to see the world,"_ her mother said, holding her hand through the 19th hour. She glared at her mother, wondering if these really were the only words of encouragement the woman had for her at the moment. She could hear the doctor talking to the nurse about the possibility of a C-Section, in hushed voices as though she wouldn't know when they made a large vertical cut down the middle of her body. She wondered what Sam was doing out in the waiting room. Maybe smoking a cigar with his father and younger brother. He was probably nervous. If she knew him like she thought she did, he was probably more nervous than her.

"_This one doesn't want to see the world."_

It seemed to echo throughout his life. She felt it when she first held him. She was so tired, but her seemed more tired than her. She knew that technically he wasn't really seeing anything, but she felt as though his eyes darted around the bright hospital room fearfully, grimacing at every touch. He was the only of her children to cling to her leg the first day of Kindergarten, and the only one to cry when left for sleep away camp. He had nightmares and hated when his parents were gone for too long. He was too quiet, too kind for Santana, always looking at her as though he knew the thoughts passing through her brain. While Blanca and Edward were mischievous and unruly, he was quiet and brooding, his face buried in a book more often than not. He skipped the first grade and then the third. Santana was surprised when he enlisted in the Vietnam war, to follow in his father's footsteps. She thought maybe it would make him louder, make him more like her other son. He returned quieter, more fearful of the world around him than when he had left.

His silence scared her. It had always scared her.

"_Why do you still live together if you hate each other so much?" _He asked Santana one night when he was probably around eight-years-old. She hadn't heard him come in. She hadn't even heard him wake up. She hadn't heard his small feet patter down the hall. She wanted to hide her drink, but she knew that was silly. He knew. He always knew. She tightened her robe around her body.

"_We don't hate each other," _she finally said, eyeing him and his small pajamas and his too light hair and too pale skin warily. _"Go to bed."_

"_Maybe you don't hate each other," _he said, shuffling on his feet. _"But you definitely want to be somewhere other than here."_

"_I asked you to go to bed, Sammy," _Santana says again. She knows her face is redder, her eyes more severe this time.

"_I asked _you_ to call me SK from now on," _he says. He tightens his arms across his chest.

Santana wants to yell at him for talking back to her. She wants to reprimand him and teach him to treat her with respect. The way he looks at her scares her though. It softens her and scares her at the same time. Like he really sees her. Like he really knows her. Maybe better than she knows herself.

"_Please, SK, go to sleep. Mommy needs you to go to sleep." _He looks at her sadly now, but turns on his heel and goes back to his room.

* * *

><p>"Por favor, siga," he says, staring at Santana. His face has never really changed. It matured of course, fine lines appearing at the corners of his eyes and above his lip, but that same youthful inquisitiveness is there. That piercing stare that makes Santana believe that he can actually read her mind, the way she used to feel when he was just a little boy, staring at her and his father. He nods to her, his eyes dark and thoughtful and beseeching. He reminds her so much of Sam. It makes her chest hurt and makes her cave to his every whim. She wonders, though, what more it is he wants from her.<p>

She feels like she's given him everything. She feels like she's given all of them everything. Now they want this too, and Santana doesn't know if she's prepared to give this up.

"They sent us to Scotland," Santana says. "We didn't know what we were doing there or where we'd be going, but the first stop was Scotland."

* * *

><p>It was colder in Scotland than in New York. Colder and foggier and wetter, and, in Santana's opinion, generally more unpleasant all around. Rachel, Dolores, Brittany, and Santana were the only women from their training group sent into the 48th Surgical Hospital. Santana has never cared for Rachel or Dolores, and she quickly discovered that she didn't much care for the new nurses she was forced to work with.<p>

They arrived in the middle of a foggy, rainy day, and were immediately sent into more training. They were going to be combat nurses, and most of the others in the 48th had already been in combat or had trained as surgical nurses for years in their civilian lives. So they trained during the day. In the evening, they took in men's uniforms in an attempt to make them fit their slightly smaller frames.

"This is a waste of time," Santana says, exasperated after another night of sewing, another night of not knowing what they would be doing or where they would be going. She didn't like to sew. She was good at it—her mother was a seamstress, after all—but she would rather spend her off hours time doing pretty much anything else. "We _have_uniforms. I'm pretty sure they didn't send us to this cold, wet country to practice our needlepoint, because I could have done this just fine in New York City. Besides, since when is Scotland known as the fashion epicenter of the universe?"

"We're combat nurses, Santana," Shannon barked at her. She was an overbearing woman, huge both in stature and in girth. Santana wondered why she was even bothering to take in a uniform. If anything, she probably needed to take one out.

"Because, Santana," says Tracy, another of the more experienced nurses, "if you want to run through the field in a skirt, it's fine by me, but you'll probably be more comfortable wearing these," she says, gesturing to the pants in her hand. "Look, if you're that unhappy, why don't you help your friend? She seems to be struggling with those pants." Santana looks at her, confused, but follows her line of eye contact over toward Brittany.

They haven't seen as much of one another since arriving in Scotland. They were on different rotations for their training this time and they were assigned beds on opposite sides of the room. It was something about assimilating the new nurses into the culture of those who had been abroad together already. Brittany had managed, through a series of well placed bets and an uncanny knack for cards, to trade beds until they were now just across from one another. Something between them was different, however.

When they were in New York, their friendship was easy and new and surrounded by dozens of other women who were also experiencing new friendships, new experiences. All of them were together, perhaps struggling through their first forays into adulthood, their first times away from overbearing mother's and protective fathers and bullying older siblings.

That was not the culture in Scotland. These women were older, wizened. They may have only been ten years older than Santana, at most, but their faces were creased with experience and something else she couldn't place at the time.

Looking back, later, she thought maybe what she saw in their faces was regret. Maybe a bit of nostalgia. Maybe even a bit of envy for the young women joining their midst who still giggled as they set their hair at night and hadn't yet been forced to experience the scourge of war, of death, illness, or even heartbreak.

Or maybe she's just projecting.

All she knew was that she and Brittany were different in Scotland than they were in New York.

Santana looks at Brittany now, noticing how Tracy's eyebrows lift with concern for the girl struggling with the sewing machine. Brittany's eyebrows are furrowed, and she's stopped moving the pants under the needle. She seems to just be staring at them, as though she will be able to take them in from sheer will alone.

"I think she'll be fine," Santana says. She doesn't know why she says it, but Tracy's face contorts in confusion now. She doesn't want people to think that Brittany can't do anything without her help. Brittany's perfectly capable of maneuvering through the world on her own-she did it for years without Santana's help. Although, she supposes that Brittany had Artie's help before her own. Not that Artie and Santana share any similarities in Brittany's life, other than helping her, on occasion.

"Earth to Santana," Tracy says, snapping her fingers in front of Santana's face. "Just go help her. You sew like a master, you'll be finished yours in no time."

Santana glares at Tracy again. She doesn't know why she does it this time either. Santana feels like something has been boiling inside her since they arrived in Scotland. She's been so angry at Brittany, angry at Quinn, angry at Sam, angry at not knowing where they're going or where they're going or when they're going. So she glares at Tracy, even though she's really mad at Brittany.

She knows she has no reason to be mad.

She's mad because she knows that she will go help Brittany, even though she's angry, and that she can't explain any of this.

"Thanks, Tracy," Santana says, a curt smile on her face. Tracy recognizes the cue, and returns to her table with Shannon. Santana continues to sew, for a bit, pretending to focus tightly in on the threads, on the hems, on every detail of this uniform. When she feels like no one is paying her or Brittany attention any longer, she carefully folds her pants and walks toward Brittany's table.

She barely notices Dolores look up as Santana rises.

"We have a word for women like that, where I come from," Dolores says, her southern accent coming out, as she looks smugly at Rachel.

"Can it," Shannon says. "We're going to have bigger things to worry about when they send us wherever we're going."

"Where _are _we going?" Rachel asks. Shannon shrugs.

"No one knows."

* * *

><p>Santana approaches Brittany, a little unsure of what she's supposed to do when she gets there. She knows that Brittany must have noticed her pulling away recently, and she's not sure whether to be offish or angry or superficially pleasant, like she's talking a teacher in school into a higher grade. Brittany is still frowning over the same part of her pants she saw her working on earlier, and Santana can't help the smile crawling at the edges of her lips.<p>

"A little birdy told me you might need some help, Britt-Britt," Santana says. Brittany looks up at Santana, her eyes wide.

"There are birds in here?" Brittany asks, looking up at the ceiling.

"No, no," Santana says, smiling warmly, inadvertently at Brittany. "It's just a turn of phrase, Britt. I heard you needed help?"

"I'm confused. I've never been a very good seamstress."

"Well, it may not seem like it, but I'm quite the skilled seamstress. What's keeping you down, Ms. Brittany?"

"Well, I'm tall, so I don't need to hem this uniform at all, but I can't figure out how to take it in without making them shorter."

"Here, hand them to me," Santana says, crouching next to Brittany and taking a look at the pants. "I'll take care of it." Santana rests on her knees, taking Brittany's uniform up in her arms and examining the lines placed on it, the dimensions Brittany's written in chicken scrawl on a scrap of paper in front of her. "Tell me a story, Britt-Britt, while I work." Santana scolds herself, internally, wondering where all her anger has disappeared to.

She had meant to seem offish. She had planned on seeming better than Brittany.

Yet here she was. Smiling. Using pet-names. Forgetting all of her carefully crafted plan.

(She wasn't really sure why she created the plan to begin with.)

"I've told you all of my stories," Brittany says, grinning. She tucks a stray hair behind her ear. Her carefully created curls always start to unravel by the end of the day, wilting into long, straight strands of blond hair. She twirls them as she thinks about her stories, and opens up her compact to reapply her red lipstick.

"Tell me about you and Artie, Britt. I want to know about you and Artie." Brittany stops moving her lipstick, the red stopping halfway across her upper lip.

"You know everything there is to know about Artie."

"I don't know anything about him," Santana says. "Except that he's stationed in the Pacific and he likes to dance and Louis Armstrong. There must be more to him than that. How did you meet?"

"I don't want to talk about Artie, Santana," Brittany says, finishing her lipstick and placing it back in her purse. They work in silence. Brittany watches Santana's lips purse as she places pins in the fabric and holds spare ones between her teeth and occasionally pulls out the tape measure to see if she's accurate. She always is.

"Artie and I met in a camp," Brittany says slowly, "right after we got to California. Our parents and our older siblings were farming then, you know, picking fruit and the like, and all of us younger ones had to go to school in a tent. I'm not very good at school, at instruction and such things," Brittany says, gesturing to the messy sewing job she'd been doing on her uniform. "Artie is _really_good in school, but he's not so good at making friends. Everyone made fun of him, even though we were all technically homeless and living in camps. Artie was someone to feel better than. So was I, but only in school. I could sing, I could dance, and all the boys wanted to be my friend. I chose Artie. He helped me make it through school alive."

"So he was a childhood sweetheart, then?" Santana asks. She feels something, somewhere. Like the steady rise and fall of her chest has become dismantled for a moment. Or maybe like she's eaten too big a meal, and it's settling unpleasantly in her stomach. Like a little of that anger is boiling back to her surface.

"Not really," Brittany says, her eyes focus on Santana's hands resuming their work. She wonders if Santana even noticed that she had stopped working, that their eyes had remained fixed together through the duration of their silence. "We were friends."

"Okay, but let's get to the romance, Brittany," Santana says, grinning. The feeling in her chest, or stomach, is back, but she knows the lines to this conversation. She has read this script before.

"It's not a good story," Brittany says, looking up to meet Santana's eyes for a split second. "I don't want to tell it."

"Okay, Brittany," Santana says. There was something sad behind Brittany's blue eyes that told Santana that she shouldn't push it, that, maybe, she didn't know the lines of this conversation after all. They work in silence for the rest of the night.

* * *

><p>"She hasn't even finished her own pants," Dolores says to Rachel, a whisper now.<p>

"I told you to can it, South Carolina," Shannon growls. "You make fun now, but those girls will be lucky to have each other once we get…wherever we're going."

"I'm from Georgia," Dolores begins to whisper. Shannon shoots her another glare, and she finally stops talking.

* * *

><p>"Excuse me for a moment," Santana says, standing up and stretching her arms over her head.<p>

"Are you okay, Mom?" SK asks.

"Fine, of course. Just making myself a nightcap."

"Make me one too, Mama," Blanca says, ignoring her older brothers' rolling eyes.

Santana notices the rolling eyes, of course, but she knows that Blanca doesn't notice the way SK's fixate on Santana as she removes herself from the room.

Santana pulls the Scotch out of the liquor cabinet and walks toward the kitchen, pulling two glasses out and filling them with ice and scotch.

She doesn't regret telling her children this story. She just doesn't know if she's ready to tell her children this story.

It's not even the first time she's told it, or at least some variation of it. Many of her students know snippets about her time during the war.

Some of her colleagues know the things she saw. Small stories about individual battles or dance halls or restaurants in Southern Italy. Those kinds of stories don't have a beginning or an ending. They are moments that can stand alone without context.

She's never sat down before and told the story quite like this, though. Instead of a vignette, this story began with a beginning. Her children are probably expecting it to have a middle and an end. It began with Brittany.

She doesn't know if she's ready to tell the middle.

* * *

><p>She will always remember the last night before they left Scotland. They knew they were going somewhere, by boat, but they still didn't know where.<p>

"Are you scared, Santana?" Brittany asks into the dark room. It must be past three in the morning, but Santana hasn't really fallen asleep at any point in the night.

"Not really," Santana whispers. She rolls over so that she's facing the direction of Brittany's voice. "Are you?"

"Yeah," Brittany says.

"I'll be there. The whole way, Britt."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

She remembers the way Brittany's breath evened out after a few moments. She remembers how dark it was in their bunk in Scotland, how she could barely make out the outline of Brittany's body across from hers. She remembers wishing their beds were still close enough together to grab Brittany's pinky.

Mostly, she remembers that this is the first time she _really _felt that unraveling of herself. She was scared, and she was alone, and she felt, for the first time, like the pressure of saying the right lines all the time was going to collapse her if she kept it up much longer.

She felt tired, but she couldn't sleep.

* * *

><p>Santana finishes her glass, still in the kitchen. She refills it and walks into the living room to join her family.<p>

"Took you long enough," Blanca says.

"I can't make the scotch pour itself any faster, Blanca," Santana says.

"It turned out that we were going to Algiers. We didn't know that when we left, of course. We didn't even know that until we were climbing off of our boats and onto shore. Nothing went as planned."

* * *

><p>"Do you remember what we were told, Britt?" Santana whispers. The night is brisk, and Santana could barely make her breath out against the night sky. Brittany nods. "Just stay low, okay? And, wade to the beach.<p>

"I know, San," Brittany says. She knows that Santana was really saying it to reassure herself.

They all stay silent. Santana thinks that it's stupid. There are thousands of bodies on the boat. _Thousands_. Not too mention the fact that they're on a _boat_. She thinks back to Sam thinking he could steal cigarettes from Woolworth's under the darkness of night. Of course, Woolworth's still had a guard at night; if anything, they were more vigilant at night, because night was when people stole things. Well, wouldn't France follow the same logic? If they were trying to protect the coast of Algiers, wouldn't they make sure someone was watching the coast at night? And wouldn't they notice if there was a _boat_ approaching, regardless of how silent the thousands of people on board were?

They feel the artillery before they hear it. Its low, rumbling growl erupts somewhere off in the distance, and the boat shakes. Brittany clasps onto Santana's waist, a reflex, really, and they don't move.

"Out. Now," Shannon says, her voice gruff. The women begin to walk down the plank, wading into water waist high. They follow Shannon's lead, crouching so only their noses are visible above the water.

Santana doesn't really remember what happened after that.

She knows that they walked through the water, literally walked in it with their bodies ducked down so that only their helmets could be seen grazing along the top. They walked all the way to the shore.

She knows that they set up hospitals, just as they had been trained to set up hospitals. They set up tents right at the front and triage tents and caravans to move those who were well enough for surgery further away from the front line.

She knows this, but in an odd way, she doesn't know how much of it she actually remembers. Those lines have become so blurry to her. She doesn't know where fact and fiction and legend have become intertwined. She knows she gave birth, but she is not sure if it was really so painful, or if she has just built it up in her head for the benefit of storytelling. She knows she was in the war, but she's also watched her fair share movies and read her fair share of books and it's all just merged into myth. She doesn't know where her memory and her knowledge divert ways.

Fear works in strange ways. Memories of it are even stranger.

Santana remembers how scared she was in those final months of pregnancy, asking her mother, her sisters, any female she could find, really, what it was going to be like. The actual _act_ of birthing a child, though, is all a haze.

She knows that it hurt, all three times, but she cannot remember the actual pain. She remembers yelling, and blood, and a feeling of pressure and tearing unlike any she had ever felt before. The actual pain, though? Somehow it vanished from the realm of the tangible.

Like heartbreak.

Or war.

The first day they set up the hospitals. Santana is assigned to the church, farther back from the line, while Brittany was placed in triage. She remembers that it was cold, that by the end of the night her feet hurt, but that pain was overshadowed by the men who began rolling into their church-hospital.

"There are too many men!" Santana said to Rachel as they walked toward the operating area of their field hospital.

"I know," Rachel says.

"No, Rachel," Santana says, grasping both of Rachel's arms and turning her so that they are facing one another. "There are too many men!"

"I know," Rachel says again.

Santana doesn't think Rachel understands. Can't she smell the sweat and the human excrement and the blood and the chemicals and the rotting meat? There are too many people. It can't be possible that Rachel's unending optimism and her relentless love for Ginger Rogers and Judy Garland are blinding her to the reality in front of them.

"It smells like shit!" Santana yells, hoping the profanity will get Rachel's attention.

"I know!" Rachel finally yells back at her. Santana looks at her, her eyes wide. "I know, Santana. We have to get to surgery." Santana follows Rachel in silence after that.

Santana knows that they slept in shifts. She never really knew when her turn was coming, but she was always relieved when Emma or Shannon tapped her shoulder to let her know it was her turn. They slept in tents. Tiny, one or two person tents, and Santana wasn't sure how she knew which one she was supposed to go to, or even _if_ there was one she was supposed to go to or if they were more communal at that point.

Things like that, things that didn't really matter, were lost in her memory.

She somehow slept soundly then, never clear on how long she'd been awake or what time of day it was. She fell asleep to the sound of artillery most of the time though.

She knows that she saw a young man rolled in with his jaw hanging half off of his face, screaming in pain with blood gurgling up through the space his mouth used to be. She's not sure what day it is, but she knows that she's been doing this for just long enough that she should be used to this sort of thing by now.

She's not.

She vomits like a sneeze. There is no nausea, it's not the smell-she's used to that by now—and there's no warning in her throat that the little food she'd had to eat would be coming back up. It does though, right there on the floor of the church they were pretending was a hospital. Rachel yells at her. She tells her to leave and get some air.

Santana can't hear her, though. She feels like she can't hear anything. Under better circumstances, she probably would have been happy for the ability to tune Rachel out like this.

She leaves to smoke a cigarette outside of the church. The sound of artillery rings around them, but it is far enough away that Santana knows the danger doesn't really exist, for her at least. She wonders where Brittany is.

Santana knows that at some point it does end. She's perched besides a bed, changing the bandages on the arm of an amputee. He's one of the silent ones. He was one of the first in, and she hads't heard him say anything since he was rolled out of the operating room with half of his arm gone. He looks so young to Santana, but he probably was just her age. His hair is half-shaved from where they gave him stitches, but what remains is blond and curly. He looks like the boys from school.

She wonders how many of them are out here now. How many of the boys from school who made her so miserable for so many years are here now? How many of them are in Europe, in the Pacific, in North Africa, fighting and losing their lives.

She can't help but wonder how many of them would still call her a dirty Spic if she were the one cleaning their wounds tonight. In the same thought, she can't help but wonder what she would do to make sure that her classmates made it back to New York City alive.

She tries not to wonder what they would do if the situation were reversed.

* * *

><p>It ends after four days. Four days of fighting, four days of seeing wounded soldiers, four days of dead. The Allies had won the battle, but there was no more concept of winning and losing for Santana. There was survival. There were some that survived and some that had not.<p>

It is silent that evening as the women get ready for bed. The traditions from back in Scotland are gone. They're in their mobile nursing trucks now, and there are no amenities to allow them to continue their usual routines. There is no setting hair in rollers, no extended examinations of pores in the mirrors. They let their hair out of buns, change into pajamas, and just sit there, unsure of what to do with themselves.

"Well," Rachel finally says, her loud voice seeming to echo in the silent tent, "I met the most attractive Canadian soldier today." They all burst out laughing. It's genuine, guttural laughter, and it fills the empty space. The spell has been broken, and Santana looks from her bunk over to Brittany's and catches the other woman's eyes, her smile going all the way up to the creases beside them. Santana breathes a sigh of relief as she catches the other woman's smile. She feels as though she has been given permission to live again. After all that death, she is still alive. They are all still alive.

"You will always be boy crazy, won't you, Berry?" Dolores asks, laughing.

"I might as well find myself a husband while I'm out here, right?" The women break up into laughter again.

"Let's go out," Brittany says, once the laughter dies down.

"Are there even places to go out here?" Santana asks.

"Universal truth, Santana," Rachel says, grinning at her, "people love to drink, worldwide. There is always a bar. I happened to have overheard some soldiers talking about one, a little jazz place in the tourist district."

"Well, Berry, you have fun dancing with a bunch of frogs and Arabs, I'm going to stay in and get my beauty rest."

"Do you think that there will be dancing?" Brittany asks, speaking for the first time since they've been in the truck.

"Where there's alcohol, there's always dancing," Rachel says. Brittany looks over at Santana and grins.

"Fine," Santana says, rolling her eyes. "But if we get in trouble, we're blaming on the midget."

The bar is like the bars back home—smoky, reeking of alcohol. It's got some American name. Cliff's or Jack's or Mitchell's, but most people are speaking French, other than the American soldiers, of course.

Santana makes a beeline for the bar, walking past the rest of the nurses and a crowd of leering soldiers.

"Scotch. Straight." She says to the bartender.

"Oui, madame," he replies, quickly pouring the liquor into the chilled glass. Santana takes a seat a seat, laying her clutch on top of the bar. She lights a cigarette and watches the rest of the nurses interact with the soldiers. Rachel is batting her eyelashes ridiculously with a curly haired soldier with a huge smile and dimples. Dolores has a small trio around her, obviously trying to buy her a drink.

Santana ignores the soldiers trying to get her to dance. She watches the other girls flailing wildly to the music, grinning and flirting with soldiers, and she wonders how they can do it. How can they pretend that everything is the same as it was two months ago.

The music is exactly the same. Everything has changed, but the music is exactly the same.

"Are you doing okay, Santana?" Rachel asks, tapping Santana on the shoulder.

"I'm fine, Berry," Santana says, taking a drag of her cigarette. "Where's Brittany?" Santana asks Rachel, finishing her whiskey. Santana gestures to the bartender to bring her another.

"You've had enough, Santana," Rachel says, trying to take the drink from her.

"Not what I asked you, Berry. I asked you if you've seen Brittany." Santana takes a cigarette out of her black clutch and the bartender lights it for her.

"Last I saw she was talking to a soldier outside."

"You know that she's married, right?" Santana asks Rachel, incredulously.

"Of course! It seemed harmless, enough, Santana," Rachel says, shrugging her shoulders as Santana storms out of the bar.

* * *

><p>Brittany isn't outside the bar though. Santana wanders the path back to their camp, hoping that she'll find her somewhere along the way. It's much darker than the city ever is, and it scares Santana. So many people who come to the city are afraid of the noise, afraid of the lights and the constant movement. It signals safety for Santana. It's in these winding, silent streets that she feels nervous.<p>

She doesn't say anything when she finds Brittany, puffing rapidly on a cigarette outside their bunks.

"You don't smoke, Britt," Santana says. She can't think of anything else to say. The air between them is thick. Santana feels guilty, but she doesn't know why. It's like everything else since she left for New York. The air between them has changed. Brittany's eyes stare at her as though there is something she should understand, but Santana can't. Santana won't.

"I need you to not leave me," Brittany replies, finally.

"I told you that I wouldn't leave you," Santana says. "I'm here."


	5. Chapter 5: Algiers, 1942

**A/N: **Thanks for all your interest in this story! I know it's slow, and I know that there's not a lot of Brittany in this chapter, but I hope that you stick with it! There will be much more flashback in the next chapter. Thank you for all of your reviews, I really appreciate every single one, and if you want to ask me questions you can reach me on Tumblr: seahorsesantana.

* * *

><p>"I'm actually am stopping there," Santana says. "I don't want to hear any arguments from any of you." She sees her children opening their mouths to speak. "I'm serious. I'm an old lady, and it's way too late for an old lady to be up. I will finish this story eventually. I'm not going anywhere." Santana rises and walks into the kitchen.<p>

"She's joking, right?" Blanca asks SK, leaning forward on the couch. "That was actually a joke. That was the worst ending ever. There's no way she can be finished!"

"She seems pretty serious." SK says.

"So," Santana says, reentering the room, "SK, Edward, you guys are staying over, right, and Blanca, I assume you are heading back to your apartment?"

"I guess," Blanca says.

"Okay, have a safe trip back to your apartment, and call me sometime this week, although, if it's too complain about money or your boyfriend, please don't bother."

"Thanks, Mama," Blanca says, rolling her eyes as she exits the apartment.

* * *

><p>Blanca rides the subway home. Usually, she likes the subway. She can read, write, think for once withouth the busy sounds of the city. She has an uneasy feeling tonight. She's not sure if it was listening to her mother or the story or if there really is someone predatory in the car with her. The feeling stays with her the entire walk home.<p>

Her roommate is awake when she walks into her apartment and is sitting at her typewriter.

"I always knew you wanted to be just like me, Annie," Blanca laughs as she walks into the apartment. She goes straight to the liquor cabinet and pours herself a glass of scotch.

"You were at your mother's for infinitely longer than usual," Annie says. "Was she not being the Hispanic mix of Brezhnev, Nixon, and the Ayatollah for once?"

"Actually, she was kind of normal tonight. And nostalgic. It was totally unreal. Like, super-freaky."

"You cool, girl?" Annie asks.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just going to go to my room. Have fun with my typewriter."

Blanca goes into her room and immediately climbs out on the fire escape to smoke a cigarette. She can't shake the unsettled feeling she has, and she doesn't know why. There certainly is no one predatory here. She feels as though something in her world has been shifted off of its axis, and she can't explain why.

* * *

><p>Uptown, Santana is sitting in her King size bed by herself. She has the photo album on her lap. She's spent so many years pushing this story down, she's not sure why she's letting it all come back up now.<p>

* * *

><p>They fall back into routine. SK and Edward and their families go home, Blanca goes back to work, and Santana goes back to doing her summer research. She hasn't heard from any of her kids for the rest of the week—not that that is unusual.<p>

Santana comes home from work the Friday after Mother's Day, prepared to spend the weekend doing some more work. She has her books on her desk and a draft of a section of her research next to her typewriter. She goes into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of Scotch, stopping by the radio on her way in. She thinks about putting on the Jazz station, but decides that the classical station will probably be more conducive to production. The sounds of Elgar's _Nimrod Variations_ fills the room. It seems appropriate, somehow, to getting work done.

She takes a sip from her nearly overflowing glass to make sure that nothing spills on her work. As she settles down in her chair, her phone rings.

"Hello?" Santana says, confused, assuming it's one of her colleagues.

"Mama, I need to know more of the story."

"Blanca?" Santana asks, putting down her drink.

"Yes, Mama, it's Blanca. Don't act so surprised, you act as though I never call you."

"You don't ever call me, Blanca."

"Mama, I need to know more of the story."

"I told you that you will get more the next time we're all together."

"God knows when that will be, Mama!" Blanca says into the phone, exasperated. She pulls on the chord so that she can bring the phone outside with her so she can smoke.

"I can hear you lighting that cigarette, Blanca. Those things are bad for you."

"Oh, please. Like I believe for one second that you've really given up smoking. Plus, since when did you believe anything that the government says?"

"Since now."

"Besides, you're trying to change the subject. I want to hear the rest of your story."

"Well, that's tough, Blanca."

"You know I'm not going to let it go."

This is why Santana has never liked her daughter. That's one of the strange things about being a parent. Santana loves all of her children. She loves them more than she's ever loved anything. She would stand in front of a bullet for her children, she would block a train for her children, but sometimes she just doesn't really like her children.

It's something about the way SK looks at her. Or the way Blanca is so much like her. She always feels the need to put her walls up—to make sure that none of them can see right through her and into all of her deep, dark secrets. They're a part of her, though, and maybe that's what scares her the most. She's not sure if there is any part of her that's worth being passed on to another generation.

"No, Blanca. I'm sorry," Santana says, hanging up the phone.

* * *

><p>The rest of her weekend goes as planned. She does some work. She goes to the Botanical Gardens, like she has every other week for as long as she can remember. She has lunch with a colleague in Harlem. She hasn't heard from Blanca since Friday night, and she hopes that it was the last she'd hear from her daughter about the story she'd mistakenly began. The whole family wouldn't be all together again until Christmas. By then they'd probably have all forgotten about the whole thing.<p>

Santana doesn't get back from the Botanical gardens until late on Sunday night. She heats up a TV dinner of chicken, mashed potatoes, peas and a brownie. Usually she avoids TV dinners—she hates being some stereotype of the older, single, woman, but they're easy and she's not feeding anyone but herself, plus, it's already 11:30. She doesn't even bother taking it out of its tray when the oven timer goes off. She just takes the plate, her glass of Chardonnay, and the fork dangling out of her mouth into the living room and turns on the TV.

Of course the news is on. It's really the only thing on after 10:00. News and Johnny Carson. Her screen opens up to smoke and yelling and crowds of people in San Francisco. At first she doesn't pay much attention to it. People protesting and burning flags and bras and books are far too common in the last ten years of her life. She cuts a piece of her breaded chicken and blows on it. A blond man comes on the screen screaming "We want justice," over and over again. She takes a bite, removing her eyes from the screen again. The screen pans to a crowd, fists in the air, their long hair and beards moving in rhythm with their chanting. She takes a sip of her chardonnay, confused about the group of people on the screen. She leans forward, straining to hear what they're saying, unable to make out individual words through the cadence of their chant.

"Remember Harvey Milk," she finally hears, so clear that she can't believe she didn't hear it the first time they said it. "Remember Harvey Milk," they're chanting over and over again, their fists moving in the air to the rhythm of their voices. "The people, united, will never be defeated," the crowd chants. "Remember Harvey Milk!"

The newscaster's voice comes over the crowd, barely audible above the chanting and the sirens and the sound of fires and broken glass.

"He also could receive two years each for using a gun in the commission of the crime." The newscaster says. Santana thinks she can't have heard correctly. Two years each. Four years for killing two government officials.

"White could now receive anywhere from four to twelve years in prison with a possibility of parole," another journalist comes in through voiceover.

The camera cuts to a scene of protestors marching through the Castro. At the front of the march there are ten or so people holding a canvass banner. Written across the front in sloppy black paint reads, "Stop The Attacks on Lesbians and Gays". Santana turns off the TV.

She walks into her office, opening the top left drawer of her desk and pulls out her emergency pack of Marlboros. She takes a look at the warning on the side for a moment, "WARNING: The Surgeon General Has Determined That Cigarette Smoking Is Dangerous To Your Health". She lights one anyway, coughing a little at the first inhale. It's been a year since she's needed to resort to a cigarette. She's not even sure if the cigarettes are still good, or if cigarettes really ever go bad.

She picks up her phone and dials one of the three numbers that she knows by heart.

"What are you doing tomorrow night?" She asks Blanca, surprised at the words coming out of her mouth.

"Mama?" Blanca asks, her voice sounding hoarse as though she's been drinking or sleeping. "Are you okay? Why are you calling me so late."

"I'm fine. You want to know my story? I'll tell you. What are you doing tomorrow night?"

"I have a staff meeting at five. After that I'm free." It sounds to Santana as though Blanca is also surprised at Santana's words.

"There's a bar on 9th and 1st. I think it's called Cuba Libre or something like that. Meet me there at seven."

"Okay, Mama." Santana hangs up the phone before Blanca has a chance to say anything more.

* * *

><p>Blanca is nervous to see her mother. She's not sure why. She changes her outfit three times before settling on a skirt just below her knees and a sleeveless turtleneck shirt. Annie makes fun of her, because you can be expected to make a good impression on the "ayatollah".<p>

The bar is dingier than she expects. Blanca has never gone out with her mother by herself. When the whole family is together, they tend to go to nice restaurants on the Upper West Side where her mother lives. This place is dark and smells like booze and sweat. She sees her mother the corner booth, looking into her drink and nervously shifting from side to side. Blanca isn't sure she's ever seen her mother look quite so nervous before. She thinks of as so strong, so independent. So angry, quite frankly. Yet here she is, sitting in the corner of a dark bar, looking anxious.

"Hey, Mama," Blanca says, placing her purse in the seat before she slides in.

"You got your hair highlighted again. It looks silly," Santana says. "I got you a drink. You still drink Scotch, right?" Blanca just nods.

"Are you okay, Mama?" Blanca asks.

"I know you're not going to let it go. I know you well enough to know that. So I'm here, and I'm ready to tell you what you need to hear, Blanca, and then we'll hear the end of it, okay?" Blanca just nods again.

"It was boring, mostly. That's the thing people don't want to tell you about war. It's a year and a half of your life, and it's mostly boring, like the rest of your life. Meals blend together, you can't remember when or why you had certain conversations, it's just boring. Half of what _does_ happen, half of what you can remember, is happy because you want it to be. The other half is traumatic and you remember it whether you want to or not. But, mostly, my dear, life is boring and a lot of in between, whether you want it to be or not." Santana pauses to take a sip of her drink.

"It was boring. We moved quickly from Algiers all the way across North Africa."

* * *

><p>"I'm bored," Brittany says, watching Santana staring at her eyebrows in the mirror. "This place is boring. You know what's not boring? Sleeping. I think I have the most interesting times when I'm dreaming. Did I tell you about the dream I had last night?"<p>

"I don't think so," Santana says, perfecting her curls in the mirror. She knows that maintaining her hair here is stupid. Their job is messy and the weather is humid. Brittany and Rachel and Tracy have all started keeping their hair in a uniform bun everyday.

"We were playing poker with some sharks. Actual sharks, Santana! One of them was named Phyllis and there was another named Monty. They were cheating. You got really mad and tried to wrestle them, but, you know, they're sharks so it didn't end so well."

"I would probably be able to beat a shark, Brittany," Santana says, grinning. "I have these opposable thumbs."

"It wasn't a thumb wrestle," Brittany says, deadpan.

"Rounds, ladies, it's time to get on our rounds," Rachel sings into the air as she walks by. "Abrams, Lopresti, I mean you!"

"I might have to friendly fire her," Santana says to Brittany.

"I don't think you can intentionally friendly fire someone, Santana," Brittany says, shrugging. "I mean, maybe, you can have a soldier's shotgun jam and you can give it to me, and I can accidentally pull the trigger while unjamming it, and then it accidentally hits her, but I'm pretty sure you can't plan friendly fire."

"Like you just did?" Santana asks, raising her eyebrows.

"No one would believe it!" Brittany says, running away from their bunk and off toward the men they're supposed to be taking care of.

* * *

><p>Rounds are boring. About as boring as everything else they have to do. They rewrap a lot of bandages and give medication and talk a little to each soldier. Anyone who was in immediate danger isn't with them anymore, so it's just the men who are fine but need to heal.<p>

Santana's not even thinking about what she's doing anymore as she unwraps the bandage around the foot of a burly recruit. It's surprising to her that he even ended up in this place.

"Where are you from?" He asks.

"New York City," she replies, not really paying attention to him or his line of questioning. She's so used to it by now.

"No, where are you originally from?"

"New York City," she says again.

"Where are your parents from?" He asks.

Santana tries to focus on the bandage around his foot. She has to be gentle. He was wounded badly, and most of these men are so out of it on painkillers that they don't even know what they're talking about. Still, she can't help the feeling that he knows something about her that she's been trying to hide from everyone.

"My parents are from Sicily," she says. She feels sick in the lie. Or maybe she feels sick from the smell from his foot. The wound, which looked okay yesterday, is now looking yellow with thick pus swelling from it. She knows yellow is not good. Yellow is not as good as red, and yellow is better than black, but as long as it's not green or black she should just keep putting antibiotic on it.

"I know it doesn't look good," he says. "I can feel it."

"I think you'll be just fine, soldier," she says, trying to not scrunch up her nose from the stench and smiling at him.

"What's your name?" He asks.

"Santana," she says.

"Are you sure you're not Brazilian?" He says, winking. "My parents took me to a hundred places named Santana in Brazil. Santana Bahia, Santana do Ipanema, Santana do Matos. Santa Ana, Mother of Mary, from the line of David. That's my name. David."

"It's nice to meet you, David." She says.

"Everyone calls me Dave. It's okay, you know. I can feel the foot. I know it's not good." They remain silent while Santana puts antibiotic on his foot. "You must have known about that line of David stuff. You're Italian, right? So you must be Catholic."

"Right," Santana says, quietly.

"Is your father in the mafia?" He asks.

"No," Santana says. They stand in silence as Santana finishes the wrapping around his foot. She can hear Brittany's laughter from a distance and glances up just for a second to see what's so funny. She's with a man with burns that cover half of his body. No one thinks he's going to make it. Santana can tell that she's flirting with him and she smiles to herself. She hears something about a shark and she can't help but let a small giggle come out of her.

"You're lucky, you know?" Dave says to Santana as she rewraps the bandage around his foot. "You're lucky that you get to be here with your best friend. I really miss my best friend," he says, trying not wince as Santana tightens the cloth around his foot.

"What do you mean?" Santana asks.

"I saw you and Mrs. Abrams talking earlier. You can just tell that you're best friends.

"I met her in training."

"Well, maybe you were best friends in a past life. Maybe Brittany is Sobe, and you are St. Anne, reunited here in this war."

"So, you're Catholic too," Santana says smiling. "Maybe you're right, David," Santana says, softly.

"Thanks for talking to me, Santana," Dave says as Santana finishes wrapping his foot.

"Thanks for being such a good patient, David," Santana says.

"Hold on to that best friend of yours. I really miss mine."

"I will," she says.

* * *

><p>Santana returns to her bed to take a nap after she's finished checking on the patients. She wakes up briefly to the sound of Rachel's voice, opening her eyes only to tell her to shut up and that she should no longer call her "Santana", rather "St. Anne" from now on, because she's probably a saint considering that she's put up with Rachel for this long.<p>

She's woken again by the sound of Brittany in her ear.

"Let's go outside," Brittany sings into Santana's ear.

"I'm sleeping, Britt," Santana says.

"But, some guys invited us to get on their trucks, and I think that we should go. A lady never turns down an invitation."

"I'm pretty sure that's not how the saying goes, Britt," Santana says.

She's holding onto her hat to keep it from flying off in the wind. She hates it out here, and she hates that Brittany has talked her into doing something that she's not interested in, yet again. Brittany's mouth is open, and she's let her hair down so it flies in the wind of the car.

Santana hates it in this car.

Santana also thinks that there might be nowhere else that she'd rather be.

* * *

><p>Blanca can tell by the way Santana is looking into her glass that she is finished telling the story for the night. Her eyes are big and a little glassy. She signals to the waitress.<p>

"Two more Scotch on the rocks," Santana say. Blanca looks at her, confused.

"Tell me about your life," Santana says. "We'll get back to mine next week."

"You know everything about my life, Mama." Blanca points out.

"No one knows everything about anyone's life, Blanca."

"What do you want to know?" Blanca asks.

"Anything you want to tell me," Santana says. She takes a sip of her drink and lets her daughter talk into the night.

* * *

><p>It's late when Blanca gets home from the bar. Her roommate, Annie, is sitting up at Blanca's typewriter again.<p>

"So, you and your mom are best friends all of a sudden," Annie says, not even looking up from the page as Blanca walks in. Blanca rolls her eyes.

"We're getting to know one another," Blanca says. "I think that's a good thing. I think my mother has something to say. Something to teach me. I just don't know what it is yet."


	6. Chapter 6: Tunisia, 1942

**A/N: **Sorry for the delay in this chapter. I hope you all enjoy, and I've loved reading your reviews. As always, if you have questions, please let me know on my Tumblr, Seahorsesanta.

* * *

><p><strong>Tunisia, 1942<strong>

* * *

><p>"How's your mother?" Marisol asks Blanca, handing her a glass of Scotch in Marisol's kitchen.<p>

Blanca's been waiting for this question since she walked into her Aunt Marisol's apartment. It's not just Marisol's accompanying eye roll that tells Blanca that Marisol isn't asking the question out of curiosity or concern for her younger sister. Marisol's asking the question because she wants the dirt. She wants to know what travesty Santana has inflicted on her children and grandchildren this time, or what excuse Santana is using to distance herself from her family, or anything to provide more ammunition for why Santana is just so _different _from the rest of them. It's the only reason that Marisol ever asks Blanca how her mother is.

Blanca doesn't really blame Marisol for this. This is just the way her mother and her aunt have been with each other for as long as Blanca can remember.

Marisol is tall and slender, like Santana, and a little bit lighter than she is. She's been wearing her hair like Jackie O since 1961, and she says that she's never going to change it.

"No one, _no one _will ever be as classy as Jackie O," Marisol always says.

Marisol's children and husband all left her in 1960. They were all unrelated reasons for leaving, but each one hit Marisol harder than the next. First, Gilbert enlisted and immediately was shipped out to Vietnam. Then Soledad got pregnant by the boy in apartment 4C and his parents sent them to live with relatives in New Jersey. Then her husband just left. Marisol came home from her work at the beauty parlor and all his things were gone. He didn't even leave a note.

Blanca had been Marisol's favorite even before she found herself alone in a two-bedroom apartment in Morningside Heights. She always wanted to have more children, but there were complications when she had the twins. She and her husband, Luis, would sometimes talk about adopting, but it never materialized.

Blanca was five when Luis left and she barely remembers anything about him, but she does remember her Aunt Marisol devastated in their home for a month. Her father was annoyed at the situation, and one thing she does remember her father doing exceptionally well was making a bad situation worse.

_"You know, a good husband shouldn't be going out to bars on the weeknights while your family stays home and keeps your dinner warm," Marisol said, walking through the living room as Sam walked into the apartment._

_ "It was a work event," Sam said, dropping is briefcase down at the door._

_ "Still. You know Luis would never have done that to us. He was always home for dinner, right after he finished at the factory. 5:15, every night, for 19 years."_

_ "And where is Luis now?" Sam asked. Marisol started sobbing again and Santana sent him a glare so harsh that he doesn't bother defending himself and just goes to their room, slamming the door behind him. _

_ "Want some tissues, Tia Marisol?" Blanca asked, peeking around the corner where she's been watching the whole situation unfold._

_ "She's an angel, your little angel, Santanita. You must cherish her." Santana allows Blanca to hand Marisol a handful of tissues._

_ "I told you to go to bed, Blanca," Santana says, her voice firm, without making eye contact with her daughter._

_ "Yes, Mama," Blanca say. "Goodnight, Mama. Buenos noches, Tia Marisol. Te amo."_

Her mother and father fought late into that night. It was one of the worst fights she had heard them have, although SK assured her that "they fought way worse than that, lots of times". Eventually he just left and Marisol let her sleep with her that night, and the next two, until her dad showed up again, flowers in hand and a new set of plates to replace the ones that her mother had broken.

That's how it was with her and Marisol. When she came home from school, Marisol would have made her Hot Chocolate with a dash of cinnamon. She bought her a Jackie O paper doll book and a Barbie doll and read her "Charlotte's Web" after school.

Santana allowed Blanca to visit Marisol once a week once she moved back to her own apartment. Blanca found everything she lacked in Santana in Marisol. They would make dinner together and draw pictures of Wilbur and learn the new dance crazes. Marisol let Blanca sit in her lap as they read and speak Spanish when she wanted and even throw a ball around, if that's what she wanted instead. Most importantly, Marisol seemed interested in her. She was interested in the mean thing Amy said on the playground and interested in SK's newfound game of giving Indian Burns.

As Blanca grew older, it was Marisol who she told first of her crush on Jack, the cute 6th grader who would never pay her any attention because she was half Puerto Rican. It was Marisol who gave her a sanitary napkin when she first got her period and Marisol's house that she slept in when no one would take her to her Senior fling.

This isn't to discount all the things Santana gave her. She knows her mother was there to feed her and kiss scraped knees and sing her to bed at night. Marisol was there to spoil her. Marisol was there to coax her through her teenage angst and, perhaps most importantly, Marisol was there to let her complain about her mother.

Marisol hated Santana, and Blanca never knew why exactly. She thought, for awhile, it was because Santana was uppity and married a white man, unlike the rest of their sisters who stayed in the community. Maybe it was because Santana went back to school and left the life they all thought they would lead. Blanca always thought it was a little because Marisol always wished she were a little bit more like Santana. Or maybe it was just that Santana had all the things Marisol wanted, but didn't seem to appreciate them.

"How's your mother?"

Marisol's question seems to echo throughout the room.

"How's your mother?"

Blanca doesn't know how to answer that question anymore.

"She's fine," Blanca finally says, taking a sip of her scotch. Somehow taking a sip of her drink makes her feel less like she's hiding something. She's not really hiding anything. She doesn't know why she feels like she is.

"Have you seen her recently?" Marisol asks, clearly pressing for more information.

"We all got together for Mother's Day."

"Really?" Marisol asks. Marisol, like the rest of the family, isn't great at hiding what she really feels. She adjusts her long turtleneck sweater and looks skeptically at Blanca.

"Really," Blanca says. "Trust me, I was surprised to. Everyone came. SK and Elena, Edward and Agatha, and all the kids. Edward and Agatha are at one another's throats, as usual. I don't understand why they just don't get divorced."

"Well, that's just the way some couples function," Marisol says. "Your mother and father were like that. It didn't mean they didn't love each other. I don't understand those relationships, but that's just the way some people are. Who are we to judge?"

Blanca thinks about this for a moment. She thinks about all the things her mother has told her in the past two weeks.

"Mom's been talking to me about when she was a nurse," Blanca says.

"Really? Well I don't know why she'd be talking to you about that," Marisol says. Blanca knows form the look on her face that the conversation is over.

"Well, tell her hello from me the next time you see her. Whenever that may be." Marisol says.

* * *

><p>Blanca sees Santana the next day, exactly one week from the last time they met up. Santana isn't looking so nervous this time, just quietly sipping on her drink and looking at the people sitting at the bar.<p>

"Hola, Mami," Blanca says as she sits down.

"Hi," Santana replies. "How are you?"

"Fine," Blanca says. She thinks about telling her mother that she saw Marisol, but something tells her that it will make Santana shut down the way she's seen her do so many times before, so she doesn't say anything about it."

"I imagine downtown is in shambles looking for that little boy." Santana says.

"It is. He's only been gone for a few days, though. I'm sure they'll find him."

"It's a shame what this world is coming to." Santana seems to think on this for a moment, swirling her drink in her hand and listening to the cubes clink against the sides of the cup. "Where did we leave off last week?" Santana finally asks, taking a sip of her drink.

"You were traveling east from Algiers."

"We went to Tunisia. Things were suddenly uneventful again. Like I told you before, that's the way most things are in this life. A lot of uneventful and then, suddenly, out of nowhere, it's not. Funny how those are the only moments where anything really matters."

"We got our orders to continue moving east from Algiers toward Tunisia. We were excited and nervous. We were young. Somehow, even after Algiers, it seemed like _something_, even a scary something would be better than sitting around. It's funny how quickly that changed."

"Once we got there, it still was a lot of nothing. More and more troops were flooding in every day. Hundreds of thousands of troops. Not just American, but British, French, Canadian. Rachel was beside herself with excitement and I spent most of my time trying to figure out how to avoid killing her. There were other nurses units, too. The 84th came in from what had been an awful scene in Morocco and they set up our tents right next to ours. They told us about things going on in other towns. Battles and skirmishes and sometimes we'd receive injured troops."

"Mainly, nothing really happened. We formed this big tent town and all just lived our lives for a little while."

"We had Christmas, 1942, in Tunisia. It was nice. "

* * *

><p>"SANTANA!" Brittany screams, running into the tent they shared with 15 other girls in their unit.<p>

"Brittany," Rachel says, her schoolteacher voice in full force, "as much as I appreciate your enthusiasm for the holidays, given the circumstances, I really wish you'd keep it down. Startling me isn't good for my heart, and I'm pretty sure it's going to have enough excitement after I go out on my date with William, that handsome British Lieutenant that I _know_ you've all been looking at."

"I'm married," Brittany says, deadpan as she walks over to Santana's bed. "Besides, I'm pretty sure that Lieutenant Billy Goat invited half the nurses stationed here out with him tonight." She says as she sits down on Santana's bed. Santana snickers.

"That's not true!" Rachel says. "Who told you that?"

"Lieutenant Billy Goat himself. I beat him in Poker. He gave me this bottle of Scotch and told me that he was throwing a party for himself and invited all the available nurses. He's also kind of a drunk, I think." Brittany says. Rachel doesn't say anything else, just huffs and walks off to the tent that Dolores is staying in.

"Thanks for getting rid of her, B," Santana says.

"No problem. That's true, though. Billy Goat lost to _me_ because he's a drunk. I won this bottle of Scotch though! Merry Christmas, San!"

"Thanks, B. Merry Christmas."

"Want to have a Christmas drink with me?" Brittany asks. Her eyebrows curve up in the middle when she asks.

"We don't have any cups, Britt," Santana says. Brittany takes the bottle from her and takes a long swig from it.

"That was good enough," she says, squeezing her eyes shut. "Who needs cups? We can have a regular speakeasy in here!"

"You're crazy, Brittany."

* * *

><p>They wander around drinking. It seems to be the chosen activity for everyone that day. They dance with soldiers and cheer each other and exchange liquors. Brittany plays cards and they win four cigars. At some point Santana sings Billie Holiday on an empty USO stage, only to get dragged off by an angry (and also drunk) Shannon. Four hours pass. Maybe it's five. Santana's not sure. She's also not sure what this soldier next to her has been talking about for an unknown amount of time.<p>

"So, where in New York are you from?" He asks. He seems nice. He has blond hair and a nice smile and reminds her a little of Sam, if Sam had normal sized lips. Sam. She hasn't heard from Sam in longer than she wants to think about.

"The Bronx," she finally answers the soldier.

"What's it like living with all those spics?" He asks.

The word burns. She feels it floating out there in the air, and the angry retorts fill up in her stomach, sitting on the tip of her tongue, poised and ready to slice up this soldier for his stupidity, for his cruelty.

Isn't she serving her country just like he is?

She remembers, just in time, that she is not Santana Lopez, fiery Puerto Rican girl from the Bronx. She's Santana Lopresti, Italian-American, just some _wop_ who doesn't want to be anywhere near those dirty spics stealing American jobs.

She knows that's what she's supposed to say. She's practiced the lines to this script and to every other one she needs to pass, to keep hiding, to protect herself.

For some reason, she can't stomach it right now, though. She can't get them off the tip of her tongue. She needs to find Brittany.

"Why don't you scram, soldier," Santana says.

"I was just getting to know you," he says. "Aren't we having enough fun?"

"About as much fun as a beggar at the Ritz," Santana says. She stumbles a bit as she gets up and wanders over to Brittany, dancing by herself in front of a tree.

"What's wrong?" Brittany asks. "You looked like you were having fun. Besides, you and Sam aren't married yet, so I figured you still have to time to have a little fun."

"He was all wet," Santana says. "I'd rather hang out with you."

"I'm no fun. I'm dancing with a tree."

"That should tell you something. Dancing with a tree seemed better than him." Brittany smiles at her, one of those big smiles that reach up to the corners of her eyes.

"You've got a great smile, Britt," Santana says. She stumbles back again and takes another sip of her whiskey.

"_You _have a great smile, Santana," Brittany says. "The best smile."

Santana feels that thing again. That thing she felt in New York after they went out dancing, and that thing she felt when she was helping Brittany hem her uniform in Scotland. She doesn't know what it is. It feels a little like she's going to be sick, but in a good way. She hugs Brittany.

"What's this for?" Brittany whispers into her hair.

"I don't know. I think I'm drunk."

"Well, I'll drink to that," Brittany says, pulling away from Santana and taking the bottle from her. "Besides, this is _both _of our Christmas' Scotch, San." Brittany winks and takes a big gulp. "_You_ have got to get better at sharing."

* * *

><p>Santana is drunk. Really, incredibly drunk. She's still outside, but it's completely dark now, and there is loud music coming from a nearby tent. Brittany is sitting next to hey, swaying in time to the music. She holds the bottle of whiskey up to the light and is surprised to find that there's still about four shots left sloshing around at the bottom of the bottle. She holds it up to her mouth and takes a swig.<p>

"I don't think you need any more of that, Santana," Brittany says, taking the bottle from her and taking a swig herself.

"You never stop dancing, do you, B?" Santana asks.

"Never," Brittany says. "It's the only thing that makes me feel whole. Let's get you to bed."

Brittany hoists Santana up from the ground and helps her back to their tent, laying her down in Brittany's bed. She helps her take off her brown skirt and the white button up top that is practically hanging off of her anyway.

"Tell me a Christmas story, B," Santana says, turning so that she is facing Brittany. She is careful not to be too close to Brittany. Just the ends of their knees touch, the points of their knuckles graze.

"Twas the night before Christmas and all through the bay,

the fog was a-travelling from far and away.

And down at the Pierce's on 19th and Capp,

six children are sleeping, including the cat.

But one childs walks through the house without care,

with hopes that Santana should soon be there.

Johnny is dreaming of girls and nice cars,

and Martha envisions her name in the stars.

Thomas and Jonas have their eyes on toy trains,

and Alice and Ruth hope for dolls with nice bangs.

But though all the fog and the deafening wind,

Brittany hears a noise that makes her heart spin.

On Dasher, on Dancer, on Prancer, and Vixen! On

Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!

Now dash away, dash away dash, away all!

As the noise settles down the dreamy fog lifts, a

sleepy Santana appears in the mist.

You were my Christmas wish! Brittany cries to the air.

I don't know who you are but I dreamed you'd be there!

I dreamed and I dreamed and I thought and I thought,

and now here you stand, the dream that I sought.

"You made that up just now?" Santana asks, her words slurred and sleepy.

"Of course I made it up just now. I didn't actually have an a partition of you during Christmas Eve of my Childhood and write that poem."

"An apparition. You're amazing, Brittany," Santana whispers.

"So are you, Santana."

Brittany lightly traces the skin on Santana's forearm as they fall asleep. Santana thinks she likes the way Brittany's touch makes her hair all stand on end. It's like the feeling in her stomach that's been bothering her the last few months. She doesn't know if she likes it or hates it. All she knows is that it keeps her up for an hour, listening to Brittany's breathing even out as she falls asleep and the Christmas festivities continue on outside.

* * *

><p>They don't bother to climb into their own beds the next morning. It's the day after Christmas, and anyone who yells at them obviously didn't get into the spirit of baby Jesus' birth and therefore can be ignored. At least, that's what Santana tells Brittany when they wake up.<p>

They watch the other girls slowly get ready for the day from their bed, but it's several hours before Santana is ready to get up and start setting her hair.

"Brittany," Rachel says, her voice almost unrecognizably timid. Dolores,

Santana, and Brittany are the only ones left in the tent. It's odd how Rachel's usual loudness has begun to drown into the background, but this quiet voice has them all at attention. Brittany looks up after a moment.

"There's a Colonel Davis here to see you."

Brittany doesn't say anything. Her lips are pursed tightly shut as she stands up and she doesn't even make eye contact with Santana as she walks out of the tent.

Santana continues to futz with her hair, trying not to listen in on the quiet voices from outside the tent. She's surprised by how quickly Brittany returns. She sits in front of the mirror wrapping her hair into a tight bun and using some pomade to smooth the curls in her bangs over to one side of her face.

She rises without saying a word and takes a cigarette out of the pack on Santana's bed and leaves again. Santana doesn't know how to react. She's not sure if she's supposed to follow Brittany and find out what happened. She doesn't think she wants to know.

It's sunny outside, and Santana isn't sure if it's the hangover or he anxiety that is making her head pound and making it hard to think about what she's about to hear.

"He's missing in action," Brittany says before Santana can even get to her. "Artie is missing in action, Santana."


	7. Chapter 7: Tunisia, 1942-43

**A/N: **I can't believe anyone is still reading. This update is late and not very good. I apologize in advance, and feel free to send all complaints via reviews, private messages, and my Tumblr, SeahorseSantana.

In a related note, I've been writing without a beta for the last three updates. If any history buffs out there are interested, feel free to drop me a line.

As always, thank you so much for reading and for your reviews. I read each and every one of them!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6: Tunisia 1942-43<strong>

_"Artie is missing in action, Santana."_

Blanca waits. The bar is definitely not silent by this point in the night. It's half-past one, and they don't call New York the city that doesn't sleep for nothing. The bar is crowded with older men, maybe about her mother's age, laughing with each other and trying to buy drinks for the few women seated at the bar. The area between the bar and the tables has filled up with people dancing to some old, vocal, jazz, some of which she recognizes from her childhood.

It's surprising how loud the bar has become. Blanca didn't even notice it happening. The gently buzz of nine-o-clock has become a roar.

Despite the laughing and the yelling and the music and the sound of glasses slamming onto wet tables, Blanca's pretty sure that in their little corner of the bar, you could hear a pin drop.

"I…I think I have to stop there," Santana says, her voice is hoarse.

She has that look on her face again. It's the look that Blanca wants to ask Santana about. A look she doesn't entirely understand. It's a little like she's thinking, but it's more intense than her thinking face. It somehow reminds her of her father, but she doesn't understand how. She wants to ask SK about it, because SK seems to understand their parents better than anyone else, but she doesn't want to talk to SK about these talks she's been having with their mother.

These talks seem sacred somehow. They seem like they're another family secret, but this one she gets to be in on.

"I'm tired," Santana says. "I'm going to see Edward tomorrow."

"You leave off in the worst places, Mama." Blanca says. She wants to say so much more, but she knows better than that.

"I know. It's the only way to guarantee you'll come back next week."

"I will. I promise."

"Well, I'll be here."

"Have fun in _Connecticut_," Blanca says as they part ways in front of the bar.

"I always do, my dear," Santana says.

* * *

><p>Santana catches the train to Westport the next morning. She likes going to Connecticut, even though she'd never admit that to her children or her colleagues, or really anyone she knows in her regular life. She's a city person, through and through, but there is something so peaceful about seeing the country once and awhile.<p>

Sometimes, when she's on her own at her son's house she likes to entertain the idea that this is _her _life, and not her son's that she is imposing upon. She likes to sit in a chair on the front lawn and listen to the rustle of the animals and smell the fresh grass. She thinks about what she would grill on their big Black & Decker and what kind of dogs she would have. She thinks that maybe she could have been happy with a life a little bit quieter, and little bit slower than the one that she led.

The train is quiet on her way up, filled mostly with businessmen quietly shuffling through their papers and a few college students. The scenery very quickly changes from Harlem and the Bronx into winding rivers and greenery.

Edward picks her up from the train station when she arrives.

"Where's Agatha?" Santana asks before Edward can even say anything.

"She's visiting her parents," Edward replies. Santana doesn't ask anymore questions. She knows when her children don't want her to pry. Vanessa jumps up into her arms.

"Abuela! Want to see the new school I'm going to?" Vanessa squeals. Santana kisses the top of her granddaughter's light curls. They are pulled into tight pigtails and skinny ribbons tied around them.

"I would love nothing more."

"We can tell Abuela all about it," Edward says, leading his daughter and his mother to his mustard yellow Lincoln Continental Town Car with a radiator grille and an opera style window.

Edward waits, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, for Vanessa to buckle her seatbelt.

"I'd like to see Vanessa's school," Santana says.

"It looks just like every other school, Mama," Edward says, pulling out of the Westport train station.

"It's not just every other school, though," Santana says, winking at Vanessa through the rearview mirror. "It's the school my youngest grandbaby is going to, and I'd like to see it.

Edward scoffs but makes a u-turn, as well as he can in his bulky car.

* * *

><p>The school is beautiful. It's a series of farm building, but larger, made to fit into the country landscape of Westport. The letters <em>"Quisque Pro Omnibus" <em>are inscribed on the front door, and Vanessa excitedly leads Santana through the grounds.

Santana hates it. She tries not to show it, but she knows that Edward can tell.

It's ivied walls remind her of all the places she was turned away. She knows that doesn't make any sense now. She teaches at Barnard. She can't help her reaction.

* * *

><p>When they arrive back at Edward's house, Santana carries Vanessa up to her room and helps her out of her yellow jumper and Mary Janes and loosens her pigtails for a nap. Vanessa chooses to keep her socks on.<p>

Edward is nowhere to be seen so Santana pours herself a glass of scotch and sits in Edward's backyard, her favorite part of his house. Edward joins her a few minutes later and they sit in silence.

"I know you're not happy about the school, Mama," Edward says.

"Why are you sending her to this private school? Why not the public school? Isn't it closer?"

"Why didn't you send us to public school, Mama?"

"Because the public school wasn't good, Edward. You know that. There are wonderful public schools here. I just don't want Vanessa to ever feel like she doesn't fit in."

"She'll fit in just fine! She's not you, Mama. Her name is Vanessa Evans—no one will ever realize that she's ¼ Puerto Rican. Besides, this is just the way that it is done here. She'll be better off going to public school. You wouldn't understand, you'd never been to New England before I met Agatha."

"I just don't understand how you can be so blasé about this," Santana says. "You just suggested that your child _pass_, Edward. She should never have to hide who she is, even if it's just a small part of her."

"Like you did?"

"What are you talking about?" Santana asks.

"That story you were telling us on Mother's Day. Didn't you say that you passed as Italian in order to join the Army Nurse Corp?"

"I did that to serve my country, not because I have _ever _been ashamed of who I am. My country was ashamed of me."

"You _are_ ashamed of yourself, Mama! If you want to talk about this, then fine, we'll talk about this. Should we talk about you _passing_, or your relationship with your sisters after you met Dad, or that _ridiculous _story you started to tell us on Mother's Day, which I'm _sure_ would explain more about just what you're ashamed about, Mama."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Your father…"

"Don't talk about Dad like you know more about him than I do!" Edward shouted, rising from his chair, his drink in his hand. "_Maybe_ SK should be here to talk about all the things he knows about you and Dad." Edward seems to rethink his last thought, but remains standing. He finishes his drink, tilting his head back to get the last drop of liquor.

"Let's just let it go," Edward says.

"Besides, I have been to New England before, thank you very much," Santana says. Edward sits back down and sighs as he places his glass on the table. "I once spent a week in Cape Cod."

"Doesn't count, Mama. That was vacation."

"I guess you're right," Santana says. "I don't really know what it's like to live in New England."

Edward picks up his glass and goes inside. The sun is beginning to set over the trees. Santana can't help but think how nice it is here. How nice it would be if this were her place and not her son's. Edward walks back outside, his glass now full, and sits down on the black Cape Cod chair next to Santana.

"Do you want to talk about Agatha?" Santana ventures.

"Mama," Edward begins, taking another sip of his drink, "don't you know by know that we're not a family that talks about these kind of things?" Edward rises with his drink in his hand. "Why now? Why do you suddenly want to get to know us, and want us to get to know you?" He walks inside before Santana can say anything.

Santana is glad to leave.

* * *

><p>Blanca hasn't seen her mother since their previous meeting. She's afraid that she won't want to continue the story. She's afraid that she going to take her fight with Edward out on her.<p>

It wouldn't be the first time that her mother's fight with someone else in the family left Blanca punished.

She doesn't even really know what happened. Edward told SK who told Tia Catalina who told Tia Marisol which is how it ended up back to Blanca.

_"I can't get a clear story from anyone," Marisol said._

_ "Well, don't ask me, I haven't talked to her since she went to see Edward."_

_ "You're her new confidant, though."_

_ "I don't know, Tia," Blanca said again._

_ "Well, whatever it is, I heard that it was big."_

Blanca hopes that it wasn't.

* * *

><p>"Edward and Agatha are splitting up," Santana says once Blanca sits down.<p>

"What?" Blanca says, barely having the time to take off her purse. "Are you serious?"

"I don't know," Santana says. "It seems like it. She wasn't there."

"It doesn't mean they're splitting up, Mama," Blanca says. "What did Edward say?"

"He didn't say much of anything. When's the last time you talked to him?"

"Mother's Day. Edward and I don't talk unless you're forcing us into the same room."

"That's sad," Santana says.

"It is what it is," Blanca replies. "Was that what you fought about?"

"This family never changes. I can't believe that already got back to you. We didn't _fight_. We had a disagreement, and it's fine now."

"Okay," Blanca says. "So, Artie was MIA?" Blanca asks, hoping her mother will continue the story.

"Artie was MIA. I went to go talk to Brittany. There was so much…so much tension between us. No one had ever taught me how to handle this."

* * *

><p>"I'm so sorry, Britt," Santana says, "is there anything I can do?" Brittany just shakes her head. She looks at Santana like she's expecting something, her eyes wide and glassy. Santana can't read the look though, and she doesn't know what she's supposed to say.<p>

"Are you going to leave?" Santana asks. She keeps her voice from cracking. It's hard, but it's the one thing she feels that she can do in this moment. "I mean, are you going to go home, to be with your family, to be with Artie's family?"

"What good would I do there?" Brittany asks. "So we can all sit around together praying that he'll be okay? There's nothing I can do. Unless you want to steal a plane so we can fly out to the Pacific to check on him?"

"I don't think that's the best idea, Britt."

"Me neither."

"Do you want to talk to me about anything? About Artie…or anything?" Santana asks. Her voice is small and unrecognizable, even to herself.

** "**No," Brittany says.

* * *

><p>"That's all she said?" Blanca asks. Santana seems more concerned with getting the waitress' attention than answering Blanca's question.<p>

"You know that phrase, 'the calm before the storm'?" Santana asks. "I hate it, I really do. It's clichéd and dull, but phrases like that are cliché because they are true. The one thing you have to understand about Tunisia is that it's dry. It's a desert and it's dry and dusty and most of the plants are those withered, desert shrubs. It was so strange to me, so new, There were moments in which it felt like there could be nowhere more peaceful than that little desert corner of the world."

She trails off as the waitress brings her drink. Blanca suddenly feels uncomfortable looking at her mother. That strange, new vulnerability has returned to her face, as if a sudden noise would make her crumble. She looks around the bar instead, wondering how her mother found this dirty place downtown, this small, dark, brick-lined walls. It's the kind of bar you always check for lipstick stains on the glasses. Half of the time, you find them.

Her mother is the kind of woman who, despite her small stature, gives off the immediate impression that she could tear you to shreds. She is strong. It's maybe the only adjective the family could ever agree upon to describe Santana. Right now it looks like this dirty bar could eat her alive.

"Brittany shut down," she finally says, taking a sip of her drink and then a breath. "She shut down and the world came at us like a barrage."

* * *

><p>Suddenly there were no moments of peace. They weren't working all of the time—no one could possibly work all the time. Gone, however, was the downtime with dancing and drinking and card playing. In it's place came a terrible stench. The smell of gunpowder and fire and blood filled the camp at all times. The smell of whiskey was no longer accompanied by the smell of dancing and sweat and the sound of laughter, but instead by fear and crying and gangrene.<p>

The front, the allied front, stretched across a huge expanse, about 20 miles from the coast. It curved around the corner of the country, and the Germans invaded from over the Mediterranean sea.

The hospitals were further inland. They were close enough to be within reach with a medic's truck, but far enough that we didn't have to worry about getting caught in stray gunfire. It didn't mean that they were completely in the clear, however.

There was confusion everywhere. Confusion and shouting that added to the confusion. A nearby shell caused the white cross to fall off the tent of the 84th nurses' unit. Minutes later a shell hit the tent itself. They tried to rush everyone out, they tried to get another cross up, but the tent burned to the ground. Everyone reacted as quickly as possible, but there was only so much they could do. Suddenly they were working on their fellow nurses as well.

Brittany wasn't speaking, not to anyone. She was working and sleeping and occasionally eating, but she was no longer telling her fantastic stories, she was no longer playing cards or hitching rides with soldiers who were more than willing. She worked and she slept.

Santana didn't see Brittany at all. To be fair, there wasn't that much time to think about how little she was seeing Brittany. It was like in Algiers, but worse somehow this time. Santana had grown accustomed to sharing a bed, to having someone to speak to at the end of the night and when they first woke up in the morning. Suddenly it was gone.

There were more important things to worry about. She knew that, but she couldn't shake the gnawing sense of loneliness that seemed to surround her all day.

Then, out of nowhere, Shannon gives her the night off. There's no reason for it. There's work to be done and not enough people to do it. Men keep streaming in, from an unknown location, wounded, hungry, dehydrated and disoriented.

She doesn't know what exactly had happened on the front, but she knows that it doesn't seem good. There were more soldiers than ever being wheeled in and so much yelling that she didn't know where it was coming from. Shannon asked her to sit with a young man who had burns covering almost his whole body.

"You know I fell in love with a Puerto Rican girl once," he says. He could barely speak, this was probably the first thing she entirely understand coming out of his mouth.

"Why are you telling me that, soldier?" She asks, lightly washing his body with a damp cloth. She doesn't know why Shannon is making her do this. His body is burned in ways she didn't know could happen to human flesh. It's just melting off of his bones. She doesn't want him to look at himself, but she knows that he probably doesn't want to see either.

"You're Puerto Rican," he says. "Don't lie to me. I know I'm dying. I saw part of my arm…my arm…" he says again, the spit bubbling from his lips as he tries to speak. He chokes on his saliva and Santana wipes it from his lips. "I saw it," he says again. "It just was caught on flames. I wanted to put it out and Ricky was just dead, just lying there, the blood dripping out of his mouth, and I wanted to put the fire out but it was all over me."

"It's okay, soldier," Santana says.

"My name's Bobby. Don't lie to me, okay. I know you're Puerto Rican. I was in love with a Puerto Rican girl once. Your secret is safe with me. I don't have anyone to tell but God."

He's quiet then and Santana continues wrapping his bandages. She has somehow stopped noticing the smell.

"Thank you, Bobby," Santana finally says.

"Thank you…"

"Santana. Santana Lopez."

"Thank you, Santana Lopez.

Thirty minutes later Santana stretches the white sheet up over his head.

She walks back out into the main room, and it's just as busy as it was before. She's surprised. She doesn't know why. She should be used to this by now.

(This is something she starts telling herself during the war and never really stops telling herself for the rest of her life.)

She's surprised that Bobby just died in a quiet, peaceful way. He just closed his eyes and drifted off into death, while all of this chaos went on outside of his curtained room. She's surprised that she told her secret to anyone and her walls didn't come crashing down.

These days, she's just surprised that the world keeps on turning.

"Take the night off," Shannon says. "No arguments. There won't be anymore fighting tonight, we're just managing the soldiers we have, Santana. You look like you need the night."

She thinks that it might be New Years Eve, but it also might be New Years Day. She doesn't have the energy to check. She doesn't want the night off. There's nothing for her to do here, and there are so many people who need help.

There's a film playing at a movie theater. Santana doesn't understand whether the theater has always been there or whether it was built for the troops, but either way, there's an old Jean Arthur movie playing, and she sits by herself in the back with a pack of cigarettes.

"Hey," a voice says next to her, breaking all the movie theater etiquette rules by sitting next to her to begin with and then talking during the film.

Santana just nods her head and reaches into her purse to find a pack of cigarettes.

She knows its Brittany.

"You have the night off too?" Brittany asks.

"No," Santana whispers. "I'm assisting Dr. Phillips in a very complicated surgery right now. Can you please be quiet?" Santana smirks at her witty response, but she can feel that Brittany is not smiling.

She hates that she can _feel _the expression on Brittany's face.

"Can you come outside?" Brittany whispers into Santana's ear. "I know you don't actually care about what happens to Bambi," she says.

"I do."

"His mother dies and it's pretty sad after that," Brittany says. "Please come outside, Santana."

* * *

><p>There alone in the dark, waiting for someone to speak.<p>

"What did you want, Brittany?" Santana finally asks. Her arms are crossed over her uniform.

"Where have you been?" Brittany asks. Her voice is defensive. Hurt, even.

"Where have I been?" Santana asks, "I'm _here, _Britt, I told you I wouldn't leave, and here I am! Where have you been?"

"I've been dealing with stuff."

"I know, and I've given you your space to deal with your stuff! How can you come here and ask where I've been when I've been dealing with this mess, this _hellhole_ all by myself. Don't ask where _I've _been, Brittany."

"I'm sorry, it's just, Artie may be dead or lost and I feel so…."

"I get it, Brittany. Go deal with Artie. He's your husband. I've been fine on my own so you don't need to expend any precious energy worrying about _me."_

"This isn't a competition between you and Artie, Santana!" Brittany says, a little louder than within comfort for Santana. "My relationship with him is _different_ from my relationship with you!"

The words sting more than Santana expected them too. In a different way than Santana expected them to.

"I know that, Brittany," Santana hisses, her words barely audible. "How can you think I don't know that? He's your _husband_. I am just some girl you met through some pretty awful circumstances."

"That's _not _what I mean, Santana. I wish you would listen to me!"

"You haven't been saying anything!" They don't say anything now. Brittany stares at her, the disappointment clear in her eyes. Santana just feels full of shame, but she doesn't know why.

"I thought I was pregnant," Brittany says. "I thought I was pregnant and they made us get married. And now I feel horrible about myself, because I don't love him like a wife is supposed to love her husband, even though I _do _love him, just not the way my brothers' wives love them. When Jonas left for the war, Mary couldn't stop crying. She just cried for days. She cried to my mother and to her mother and to me and Martha. When Artie left, I felt free."

"That's okay, Britt," Santana begins.

"It's not okay! I felt free and even though this is a horrible place with horrible things happening, part of me never wanted this freedom to go away. Maybe that wanting, maybe that little piece of hope that I could feel this free forever made whatever terrible thing is happening to Artie happen!"

"Britt, that's crazy," Santana says.

"It's not crazy! Don't say that, Santana. I got _both _of us trapped in this marriage because I was too stupid to know that just because I was feeling sick and there was a stork making a nest on my garage that it didn't mean I was pregnant. By the time we all realized what had happened, we were married. And now I've gotten Artie kidnapped or killed or worse because I wanted a moment of freedom!"

"Honey, you couldn't have prevented what happened to Artie. This is a war. Artie would have gone over just like everyone else whether you wanted him to or not."

"I know. I just feel so guilty. And everyone is so worried about me and how I feel about Artie and they don't know that I'm just such a horrible wife."

"I'm sure your not a horrible wife, Britt. How is that even possible? You're beautiful and you're funny and you're the best dancer I've ever seen in my life, and I've seen a lot of amazing dancing."

"None of that makes a wife, Santana."

"I think it does."

"Artie and I love one another Santana. We do. I just don't know if we love one another the way that we're supposed to."

"I didn't know that there was a particular way that we were supposed love," Santana says.

"That sounds like something I would say," Brittany replies.

"Well, maybe you're rubbing off on me."

"Let's go to bed, Santana," Brittany says, rising and reaching her pinky out to Santana's. Santana takes it tightly and allows Brittany to lead them back to their bunk. She hesitates at her bed, not sure what to do now that they've made up. Brittany climbs in first and reaches down to Santana again, so Santana climbs in after her.

Santana doesn't want to fall asleep. She used to sleep so much better with Brittany near by. Now she is too attuned to the transience of the world around her. A pin can drop and her world may shift on its axis. She knows she has to hold onto this moment while she can, and in this moment, the stability of the rise and fall of Brittany's breathing feels about as permanent as it can get.


	8. Chapter 8: Tunisia, 1943

**A/N: **I'm going to stop promising chapter updates in a reasonable time, because it's just probably not going to happen. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. I don't really want to answer any questions about where it's going because I think the story will speak for itself when it's finished, but I always answer private messages/questions to my Tumblr as long as they don't give away the ending.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight: Tunisia, 1943<strong>

"And then we slept. And, I guess, that was all."

The table is silent again. These evenings with her daughter often turned silent, the space between them filling with a bloated reminder of how far apart they often are.

"Why did you marry Dad?" Blanca asked, suddenly, cutting into the space.

"What kind of question is that?" Santana asked.

"I think it's an appropriate question, considering the story your telling me right now. Why did you marry Dad?"

"I married him because I loved him."

"Did you love him the way Brittany loved Artie?"

Santana doesn't know how to respond. She will never know how Brittany loved Artie. Santana is not Brittany. She thinks about telling Blanca this, but she is overwhelmed by a wave at disgust for herself, for this story, for everything about the situation. She finishes her drink and throws some bills on the table.

"I think you've heard about enough for tonight."

* * *

><p>"Hello?"<p>

"Hi, Elena, can I speak to SK?" Blanca's voice was hoarse, but she didn't have the energy at the moment to do anything about it.

"It's Amanda," the voice on the other line clarified, "you sound sick Tia."

"I'm fine, you sound so much like your mother. I'm getting old. Can I talk to your dad, please?"

Amanda doesn't say anything, but Blanca can tell from the rhythmic thwack that she has just left the phone to hang.

"Hola, Blanca," SK said.

"Can you tell me your favorite memory of Dad?" Blanca asked.

"Why?"

"Can't you just do it, SK?"

"Does this have to do with the fact that you and Mama are getting all chummy lately?"

"Nevermind, SK," Blanca says, resigned. "I don't know why I asked."

"You're drunk, Blanca," SK said. "You sound terrible. I'll talk to you soon."

* * *

><p>SK and Blanca don't talk soon. Blanca doesn't talk to anyone in her family.<p>

It's strange how not talking to her family is a return to the status quo.

Uptown, Santana is feeling the same way. She tried for two weeks. She left a few voicemails on Blanca's machine, she even asked SK and Edward how their sister was doing. Either they didn't know, or they weren't talking to her about it.

Life moved back to the way it had been for so many years. She worked. She wrote. She met coworkers for drinks.

Blanca did the same.

August arrived and the last three months were all but forgotten. Nothing more than a blip in the grand scheme of what her life with her mother had been, and would probably always be. Blanca became bogged down with work and with friends and with drink and dancing and all of the things her life used to be bogged down with.

It's a Friday afternoon, one of those awful summer days where the sky crackles all day from the humidity and everyone is on edge waiting for the thunderstorm to break through. Her phone won't stop ringing. She's been working on a story on the just-opened Pregones Theatre and what has just been dubbed the Nuyorican movement. She hasn't done enough research (which is surprising to her colleagues—just because she's half-Puerto Rican doesn't mean she automatically knows everything going on in the community), so she's getting annoyed at the unending phone calls.

She was on the phone when Phyllis, one of the secretaries, pops her head in the door.

"Staff meeting is cancelled this afternoon, Blanca," Phyllis says. "Rescheduled for Monday at seven."

Blanca was simultaneously relieved to have the weekend to work and annoyed that she would have to be at work at seven on Monday.

"Do you know why?" She asked before Phyllis could walk out of the door.

"Jill's got some meeting to go to in D.C. Probably a dyke thing, knowing her," Phyllis says, smiling.

Blanca smiles back.

Several hours pass before she picks up the phone to call her mother. She's still in the office.

"Hola, Mama. I got your voicemail. Want to schedule for Cuba Libre this week?"

"I didn't think that you were going to call me back," Santana said, passing her daughter her drink. "I mean, I assumed you were going to call me back eventually, but, not about this, I guess," she clarified.

"I've been busy," Blanca said.

"I thought, I guess I thought that maybe you wouldn't like what I had to say."

"I never thought I'd see the day," Blanca said, chuckling, "that Santana Evans would be insecure about what she had to say. Alert the goddamn media."

"You are the media."

"Touche, Mama. Where did we leave off?"

"Brittany and I had just made up after my bad reaction to Artie being MIA. Things had returned to normal. Again."

* * *

><p>"SANTANA! SANTANA!" Brittany bellowed as she jogged from the rehabilitation tent down to their bunks.<p>

"Jesus, Britt," Santana said, barely turning around in her chair where she was writing a letter to her mother.

"They shouldn't call this place Oran. It should be called _Bor_an, I think," Brittany said, taking one of Santana's cigarettes and pretending to smoke it.

"Stop wasting my cigarettes, Brit," Santana said, trying to snatch her cigarette out of Brittany's mouth.

"I'm not wasting them. This is how we smoke in California," Brittany said. Santana rolled her eyes

"How do you have so much energy right now, Britt?" Santana asked.

"I told you. This place is _Bo_ran."

"Yeah,' Santana said, "let's hope it stays _Bo_ran for awhile."

Santana expects Brittany to go and find something more interesting to do, but instead she sits in the chair next to Santana, swiveling around and practicing her ability to shuffle cards like a professional.

"You dames want to come on a ride?" Lieutenant Billy Goat asks, his usual smirk plastered to his face. Santana doesn't need to respond, just glares at him with her eyebrows raised.

"You're sure, Santana?" Brittany asks.

"Yeah, Britt, I'm sure."

"Sorry, Billy Goat. Another time," Brittany says, leaning back in her chair.

"Suit yourselves, ladies. I'm sure you two can find something to do to entertain each other," he says with a wink as he shuts the tent behind him. Santana rolls her eyes, but there is suddenly a heavy silence between them.

"What do you think he meant by that, Britt?" Santana asks, putting her magazine down.

"Nothing, probably." Brittany says between chews of a wad of bubblegum the size of a half-dollar. Santana giggles.

"He's such a jerk," Santana says. Brittany nods in agreement, stretching her gum out of her mouth with her index finger and thumb. Santana lights another cigarette.

"You, know, you can go out with him if you'd like. I know it's boring right now."

"Nah. Won't be fun without you."

"Yeah, Britt, let's go!" Dolores says, out of nowhere.

"Jesus, Dolores!" Santana yelps.

"Come on, Brittany. Not your fault that Santana is such a stick in the mud."

"She's not a stick in the mud," Brittany says.

"Still, let's go have some fun! While we still can!" Dolores doesn't wait for a response from Brittany before she leans out of the tent and yells for Billy Goat to stop.

Before any of them can say another word, Dolores has dragged Brittany by the hand and dragged her out of the tent. Brittnay whips her head back to Santana for a split second and winks.

Santana can hear the Jeep circling around their camp for a bit, making the usual rounds to find other bored soldiers and nurses. They aren't really going anywhere in the Jeep—they're not allowed to really go anywhere. They just circle the base, driving faster than they're supposed to in an attempt to find a way to pass the time.

Santana peeks her head out for a second to watch Brittany grinning before the Jeep moves off to another part of the camp.

Once Brittany is gone there isn't as much to do. Santana responds to the letter her mother sent her a few weeks earlier. She smokes a few more cigarettes than she should. She's vaguely aware of Rachel talking in the background, but she doesn't even bother with the usual compulsory head nods.

"_Britt's good," _Santana writes in a letter to Quinn. "_She still has more energy than I will ever understand. I can't believe we're stuck here with Rachel. She's insufferable. I can't recall a single moment in the last six months that I haven't heard her voice in the background of my life."_

Santana notices something as she writes the line. She notices the silence. She notices the lie.

Rachel is silent.

She turns around. Rachel is on the edge of her chair, her eyes wide, her mouth open, but no words coming out.

"Something got your tongue, midget?" Santana asks. Rachel doesn't respond, just shakes her head and puts her finger at her lips. Santana raises her eyebrows. "What's wrong with you?" She finally asks.

"Stop talking, Santana!" Rachel yells. It's not actually a yell. It's a whisper, but it's in that tone of voice that can't be mistaken for yelling.

She stops talking and she stops thinking and then she hears it. Just a small popping, a little bit like giant popcorn far away. It's just like popcorn, in fact. Just a few noises, every few seconds, and then the more explosions than Santana can count in a second, before it slows down again.

"Santana," Rachel begins, reaching out to touch Santana's shoulder. Santana isn't even sure when Rachel walked close enough to touch her.

"Landmines," Santana says. It's the only response she can think of at the moment. Rachel nods.

"I have to go."

Rachel looks at her, the confusion etched over her face.

"You can't go."

"I have to go," Santana says again. She's vaguely aware of the fact that it's difficult to breath—vaguely aware of the way her swallowing seems to have been stopped by a huge intrusion in her throat.

She's not sure she's ever felt like this before.

"Santana!" Rachel cries, as Santana makes her way toward the entrance.

"You stay here and make sure everyone's okay, I'm going out there."

"Out there to do what, Santana? You don't have any weapons and you'll be useless to us dead!"

"Brittany is on the Jeep, Rachel."

Rachel swallows visibly and her mouth opens slightly.

"She's on the Jeep!"

"Stop, Santana," Rachel says, still holding tightly to her arm. "You have to stop!"

"Please," Santana says. Her voice is trapped somewhere she doesn't understand. She's crying but she doesn't know when it started and she's not even really sure when she realizes that it is happening.

"Let me out. It's stopped, it's stopped, Rachel." Rachel slowly releases her arm, sending Santana bounding out of the truck. She runs through the desert, through the shrubs, until she's out of the camp, far past where the Jeeps were supposed to go. Far past where any of them were supposed to go. It was landmines. The earth looks as though it were turned inside out. The Jeep that led the group is engulfed in fire and it takes merely a quick glimpse at the scene for Santana to realize she shouldn't even bother searching for the men whose job it was to look for the landmines. Someone had probably stepped directly on one, setting the chain of off.

She sees Billy Goat's Jeep. He keeps a lock of hair from his girlfriend tied to the bumper. The lock of hair is burning and it's turned on its side and all she can see was a mess of blond hair hanging out of the window and blood. Blood everywhere. Everything stops and she feels it again, that unnerving sense that something inside of her is coming apart, or perhaps imploding into a shell of nothingness. She can't see again. She can't see and that sneeze like vomit she felt her first day in Algiers comes back, leaving her breakfast mixing with the dirt in front of her. She feels Rachel's small hand on the small of her back.

"Go back to the truck, Santana," Rachel says softly. It's her voice that snaps Santana out of it. Anything Rachel says, Santana must do the opposite. She makes her way slowly to the Jeep, Rachel's voice softly droning in the background. It's noisy again. She hears people running and screaming and stretchers clanging on the ground behind her. Everything is fuzzy except for the Jeep. She knows why Rachel wants to stop her. She's seen death. She's seen so much gruesome death by now, but she has to be the one to see Brittany first. Brittany is hers. She doesn't know when it happened, but, at some point, Brittany became hers and it is her responsibility to find her and take care of her and make sure that no one sees her beautiful Brittany like this.

She's vaguely aware that the reason she can't see are the tears streaming down her face. She is vaguely aware of her thoughts, but they seem fuzzier and more nonsensical than the sight in front of her. She's at the Jeep, suddenly, not remembering the walk to get there. She gently grasps at a lock of blond hair hanging out of the window, slick with blood.

"Brittany," she said softly.

Blond hair turns and blue eyes come into focus, full of tears, streaming down her face. Blue, living, eyes. Santana chokes on her sob, not knowing the words she needs right now, not possessing the vocabulary needed to describe what she's feeling.

"It's Dolores, Santana. Dolores." Brittany says. Santana's eyes focus, and she realizes that Brittany is covered in others blood, trying desperately to perform CPR in a Jeep turned on its side. She rushes over as Brittany presses compressions into Dolores' chest. Her eyes are rolled back in her head and glass was sticking out of her scalp.

"Britt…Britt-honey….I think she's gone," Santana said through a sob, grasping tightly to Brittany's forearms in an attempt to get her to stop the chest compressions.

"Stop, Santana! You don't know that," she sobs, continuing to perform her sideways chest compressions. Santana lets her. She watches as other nurses and soldiers climb off of the trucks, looking for anyone who still has life in them. No one speaks, they just kneel over their comrades, their friends, checking for pulses, flitting eyelids, anything that speaks of life.

"Let me get you out," Santana said softly to Brittany. Brittany has stopped crying. She's stopped moving. Her hands rest over Dolores' chest. "Let's get out of the Jeep, Britt," Santana said again. Brittany doesn't respond, but allows herself to be pulled out of the window. Without Brittany supporting her, Dolores' body crumples on the other side of the car. With her one arm supporting Brittany, Santana leans over and vomits again. There is nothing left to come out, not really, she just chokes on bile and stomach acid, painting yellow lines in the sand. Brittany is silent. She kneels on the ground, pulling Santana down with her, rubbing her head, her back.

"It's okay, Santana, it's okay." Santana shakes her head vigorously.

"This is not okay." Santana rocks back and forth, unable to stop crying, unable to control the tears gushing from her and the hysterical sobs. "We have to help," Santana said, suddenly aware of the situation that has unfolded around them. "We have to help." Brittany looks at her, her eyes wide, but she nods and they part, searching for anyone left alive, anyone that could use their help.

* * *

><p>TThey don't see each other again until after dusk falls, after the dead have been organized and tagged and the wounded have been bandaged as best as they could.<p>

"Santana," Brittany says, approaching her in the purple night and surprising Santana. She takes a big drag of her cigarette and then stamps it out into the dusty ground.

"Billy Goat," Santana says.

"I know. I helped them write the letter to his girlfriend."

"Dolores. I hated Dolores. I wanted her to live a miserable life in Alabama, or wherever she was from, with a man she hated and awful, bratty kids."

"I know," Brittany says.

"I wanted her to live a life though," Santana says. She wraps her arms tightly around her chest. She feels as though she is being sucked up by a vacuum, as though everything is more hopeless than she ever thought it could be. Brittany leans in and places a hand on Santana's arm. Santana recoils from her touch.

"I thought I lost you, Brittany. I thought…I thought…I thought it was your mess of blond hair filled with blood back there. I can't! I just can't!"

"Shh, honey, I need you to calm down, I'm right here. You're supposed to be the protector of us all, right?"

"I can't right now, Brittany, I just can't. You're…you're my best friend, I don't know what I'd do without you." Santana can't stop crying now, her tears feel completely separate from everything else in her body. "I'm scared, Brittany. I'm scared, and I don't know what we've gotten ourselves into."

Brittany can feel Rachel watching them. She can't see, because her eyes are full of tears, too blurry to know what's going on around her, too afraid to see the blood, the loss, the death.

"You can't shut down, San," Brittany said, helplessly. Since breaking down at the truck, Santana hasn't said anything. She has cried. She has stared blankly at the walls. She has cried again. She has rocked herself back and forth, and hugged Brittany, and occasionally sang in Spanish, but she has not spoken. "Nothing is not good enough for you, Santana. Please don't shut down. I need you." Santana looks up at her, their eyes locking. It's the first time her eyes look like they're actually focusing, registering what's in front of her all day.

"I can't, Brittany. I don't want to feel this."

"Oh, Santana," Brittany said, pulling her close.

"Can't feel this," she said again.

"Let's go dancing."

"What?" Santana said, choking a bit through her mixture of laughter and crying. "We can't go dancing here, Britt! We're in the middle of North Africa. In the middle of a war! We can't just dance and make everything better anymore!"

"See, that's how they trick you."

"What are you talking about?" Santana asks, allowing Brittany to pull them closer together.

"That's how they trick you." Brittany's voice is soft and low, and small wisps of her hair tickle Santana's face as they speak. They want us to think that we're all different. Think about the terrible letters your receiving from Quinn about Europe right now. But those Nazi's are still secretly dancing, and they're still dancing to the same music you and I are dancing to. My friends in internment camps are still dancing. If you forget that we all love to dance, then you're going to forget what we're fighting for.

Brittany pulls Santana close and rests her hand on the small of her back. She clasps her other hand with Santana's intertwining each of their fingers, one by one.

"Living for you," Brittany sings softly, leaning her head into Santana's, so that her mouth grazes her ear. "Is easy living, it's easy to do, when you're in love," Brittany sings as they sway in time to Brittany's rhythm. It's so much slower than Billie Holiday's version, but Santana thinks that she likes it that way right about now.

"And I'm so in love, there's nothing I wouldn't do," Brittany continues. "I'll never regret the years I'm giving, they're easy to give when you're in love. I'm happy to do whatever I do for you."

"It's easy to live when you're in love," Brittany finishes, as they're swaying slows down. Santana realizes that she's stopped crying and that it's just her salty, sticky cheek pressed to Brittany's shoulder.

"And I'm so in love," Brittany sings out the final lines, "there's nothing in life but you."

Brittany's done singing, but they're still swaying to an imaginary rhythm.

"I thought that I lost you, Brittany, and I didn't even know that you were mine to lose," Santana says into Brittany's shoulder.

"How did you not know that, Santana?" Brittany asks, placing a tender kiss on Santana's head.

"I don't know. I don't know how I could not have known."

It's even hazy to Santana what happened after that, after so many years.

So much of it seems to be the stuff of dreams, of that perfect, romanticized memory of what life was like before twenty, before real life, before marriage and children, before bearing the full weight of who she was and who she is.

She knows that it was perfect, though.

She knows that the feeling of Brittany's lips trailing a soft path from her hair to her ear to her cheekbone and down to the corner of her mouth was the most perfect path she has ever felt.

She knows that the feeling of Brittany's lips on her own is unsurpassed by all the other lips that have ever touched hers. They were slightly chapped but so soft, melting into her own as though they always belonged there.

She knows that she could feel Brittany's heartbeat in perfect rhythm with her own for the rest of that night.

She knows that that moment of being so perfectly in sync with someone else is something that she will never forget.


End file.
